The Loud Silence of Francine Green

  I took the script back. '"That matters not. I am Saint Michael, but it is God who commands you.' Now Saint Michael disappears, replaced by a beautiful girl with long golden hair with her foot on the head of a dragon. 'I am Saint Margaret, and I am here to tell you that Saint Michael is correct. God has chosen you to save France.' You read here, Dolores."

  Dolores cleared her throat and said, '"I am but a weak woman, and I am a fright and—"'

  "Not a fright, Dolores. Affrighted."

  "What the heck does that mean?"

  "It means frightened, scared."

  "Then why can't I say that?"

  "Affrighted is so much more poetic. But okay, say frightened."

  Dolores cleared her throat again, and her voice rang out. '"I am but a weak woman, and I am frightened—"'

  "Come on, Dolores, you've got to sound frightened. Like this." I hunched my shoulders and whispered, 'I am but a weak woman, and I am frightened and much too cowardly to lead an army' And Saint Margaret says, 'Oh Joan, my dear, I too was but a weak woman, but when threatened with death for being a Christian, I found the strength to resist, even when swallowed by a dragon, which I caused to burst asunder and—'"

  "Francine," said Dolores, pulling on my arm, "the saints have all the lines."

  "No, wait." I turned the page. "Now you read this, where Joan says, 'What is it God commands me to do?' And Saint Margaret answers, 'Go to Charles in Paris and tell him that it is God's will that you put on armor and raise a mighty army to drive the English out of France, and crown him king.' Joan paces around like this for a while" (I paced and wrung my hands) "for she is sore afraid and reluctant to ride a horse and lead a bunch of strangers to battle, but gradually she can feel her sense of duty outweigh her fears. And here, Dolores, you'd gradually stand straighter and taller, and then say—"

  I looked for Dolores, but she wasn't there. "Dolores?"

  "Hi, Wally it's Dolores," she said into the telephone in the hall. "Hold on a minute." She called to me, "Never mind, Francine. I'm going to read a scene from Oklahoma!"

  She did, and she was cast as Third Farmer's Wife. No lines, but it was a part, and she got her name in the program.

  I put the script for Joan of Arc under the half slips in my underwear drawer. I might need it someday if I were to audition for something. After all, acting might run in the family.

  21

  Hooray for Hollywood!

  After days and days of rain, Monday dawned sunny and mild. "I can't bear the thought of going to school on a day like this," said Sophie as we bounced along in the bus, past liquor stores and palm trees and little stucco houses in candy colors, motor courts and used-car lots and big gray buildings full of dentists. "Why don't we just stay on the bus until it gets somewhere interesting, somewhere we could have an adventure?"

  "Yes, someplace like Chicago," I said. "Or New York. Or Hoboken."

  "What's Hoboken?" she asked.

  "A city in New Jersey. That's where Frankie Sinatra's from. He's swoony." I thought a minute. "Wouldn't it be neat if this bus could fly? We could be in Hoboken like that," I said, snapping my fingers. "Or in Europe. Spain, maybe, or Italy."

  "Or Paris," Sophie said, "where we'll smoke skinny black cigarettes and write dark, tragic poems."

  I took a deep drag on my #2 pencil. "We'll be pursued by handsome French painters, be madcap romantics, and have high jinks and tomfoolery. Hey," I said, knocking my knee against hers, "on Saturday let's go to Hollywood. We could have high jinks there. And maybe see movie stars."

  "Let's go today, Francine. Look," she said, pointing to a billboard out the window. "It was meant to be."

  The comedy team of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, proclaimed the billboard, onstage, in person, before the movie at the Egyptian Theater. In Hollywood. Today.

  "Dean Martin is on the cover of the new Look magazine," Sophie said. "He's pretty dreamy. Let's go see him."

  Me, I definitely preferred Jerry Lewis, with his rubber legs and funny faces. "Hey, lay-deee," he'd say and I'd laugh until I snorted out my nose.

  "Why don't we just stay on the bus, skip school, and see Martin and Lewis?" Sophie asked me.

  "Okay."

  She stared at me. "You mean it?"

  "Sure. Let's just forget about school and fool around in Hollywood. Maybe we could skip school tomorrow, too, and go to Mexico or San Francisco. In fact, we could skip school forever and just travel the world having adventures."

  "Really? Would you?"

  I took a deep breath. "No, no, and no. Of course not. I was being ironic."

  "I know that, silly. I meant today. Would you go today?"

  "No. We'd get in trouble."

  "Jeeps, Francine, don't be such a dishrag. Sister Basil the Not-So-Great is away this week, remember, and Sister Saint Elmo never knows who's there and who isn't. No missing Sophie and Francine, no trouble. Come on. Let's go. We could have lunch in a drugstore. I have enough money for both of us."

  I reached up to pull the cord to signal the driver. "I can't do it. I'd worry too much."

  "Too late now," Sophie said. "We passed our stop long ago. If we go back, we'll just be late and have to stay after school. If we don't go at all, they'll probably just think we're out sick."

  "The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone won't."

  "Who cares? Sister Saint Elmo pays no attention to her."

  "That's because Sister Saint Elmo can't hear."

  "So, no problem. Come on, Francine. Live a little." We were way past our stop by then. My palms were sweaty and my head ached. As I sat down again, I knew I would regret it.

  We rode all the way to Hollywood, watching the houses and shops give way to department stores, nightclubs, and drive-in restaurants with carhops on roller skates. The rain had cleared the gray-and-yellow smog away. The hills were green, and I could see snow high on the mountains to the east.

  The scared feeling in my stomach gradually gave way to curiosity and excitement. Hollywood. Jerry Lewis. Movie stars. I began to feel a bit like one of the sisters in My Sister Eileen, who had madcap adventures and high jinks in New York. Maybe handsome foreign sailors would fall in love with us and follow us through the streets like in the book. I patted my hair and sat up a little straighter.

  At Highland we got off the bus, took off our beanies, and stuffed our blue All Saints sweaters into our book bags. We walked up Highland, past Selma, and there we were—Hollywood Boulevard. No movie stars, but grand theaters, used-book shops with dusty windows, and little coffee shops that smelled like bacon.

  The Egyptian wasn't as famous as Grauman's Chinese down the street, but in the courtyard, guarded by sphinxes and a giant dog-headed god, I was Cleopatra, sailing down the Nile on a barge, loved by men and coddled by my slaves. "Peel me a grape," I'd command them. "Shade me with an umbrella lest I sunburn and freckle."

  "Come on, stop dreaming," Sophie said, waving the tickets. "This cost me seventy cents, so I don't want to miss a minute."

  Inside, the theater was nearly as big as the train station downtown. It was cool, white and gold except for the scarlet draperies, red plush seats, and a ceiling so blue you felt there was no end to it but Heaven itself. An usher in a shiny white uniform trimmed with gold braid tried to show us to seats downstairs, but it was too crowded. We shook our heads and went up into the first balcony, where we sat behind an empty row and put our feet up on the seats in front. When the red velvet curtains parted, there was a hush, as if we were in church and the pope himself was coming out to entertain us.

  Dean Martin was dreamy, and Jerry Lewis just as funny as in My Friend Irma. He walked on his ankles, and said, "Awww, Deeeeeeeean," and pretended to lead the orchestra. We laughed and laughed.

  The movie was a western with John Wayne. I'd had enough of cowboys, what with Artie and his new Hopalong Cassidy outfit, and Sophie was hungry, so we didn't stay.

  We went to Walgreen's for tuna on wheat toast and cherry Cokes, but the tuna sandwich sat like a lump in my stom
ach. "We'd better go home now," I said, feeling a little uneasy.

  "We can't. How could you show up in the middle of the afternoon? What would you tell your mom? We'll have to wait until after school." Sophie pulled on my arm. "Come on. Let's go listen to records. 'It's Music City, Sunset and Vine,'" she sang, like the commercial on the radio, and headed for the record store. I followed her but kept looking behind me for Sister Basil, as if she were not at a retreat for Catholic-school principals at all but had gone to see Martin and Lewis at the Egyptian and was now headed to Wallich's Music City, where she would catch up with us and—

  "Come on," said Sophie, pulling me faster. And soon we were both singing, "It's Music City, Sunset and Vine," swinging our hands and running through the door of Music City.

  "'You're Breaking My Heart,'" I said to a skinny clerk with watery eyes and a mustache.

  "And we hardly know each other," he said with a wink.

  My face flamed up. "No. I want to listen to You're Breaking My Heart,' by Vic Damone."

  He pulled a record from the row behind the counter, put it into a green paper sleeve, and handed it to me. Sophie and I went into one of the little glass booths, put the record on the turntable, and listened to it over and over. It was so romantic. I closed my eyes and imagined Gordon Riley singing to me as I was leaving him for another and breaking his heart. No, even better, the Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone was singing as Gordon left her for me, his own true love. Yes, much better.

  Finally the clerk knocked on the glass and frowned. I put the record back into the sleeve and handed it to him as we left. Twelve times! Vic Damone had sung to me twelve times!

  As we headed home on the bus, the curiosity and excitement abandoned me entirely. "This doesn't seem like fun anymore," I said. "I can't believe I let you talk me into it. My parents will kill me."

  "They won't even know."

  "They know everything."

  "Francine," my mother said as soon as we walked in, "where have you been? Sister Peter Claver called. You missed your shift at the library." She dried her hands, smoothed her apron, and looked at me.

  Sister Pete. Jeepers, I had forgotten.

  "Where were you?" she asked again, her eyes so sharp they could peel radishes.

  "I ... we ... I..." I felt hot all over, and my stomach tumbled. I wished I could just say "Hey, lay-deee" like Jerry Lewis and walk on my ankles to my room.

  "She was with me, Mrs. Green," Sophie said. "I was upset and unhappy, and Francine generously agreed to stay and comfort me." She sighed and pushed her hair back. "I have no mother, you know."

  My mother patted Sophie gently on the arm. "Poor girl. Of course." She shook her head. "But next time you're upset, go to the Sisters or come to me instead of leading Francine astray. Francine has always been such a good girl, and we like her that way." My mother meant every word. She has no irony. "Now, come into the kitchen. I'm making cinnamon toast."

  I couldn't believe it. I was in the clear. I smiled gratefully at Sophie as we sat down at the table. Boy, did I owe her. She winked and took a big bite of her toast, sending cinnamon and sugar spraying in all directions. "Next time we'll go see Frank Sinatra," she whispered. And I felt like I might, just might, be able to do it.

  "Sister Pete," I said when I arrived at the library after school the next day, "I'm so sorry I didn't come yesterday. I got mixed up and just forgot."

  I didn't mention that I hadn't been in school at all. Sister Pete is pretty modem for a nun, but not that modern.

  "It's all right, Francine. We weren't busy. But..." She stopped and looked at me. The tight wimple pinched her cheeks together and made her face a mass of wrinkles, like a raisin or a topographical map of Bolivia. "Please don't get so distracted that you forget again. I depend on you."

  "Yes, Sister, no, Sister," I said. "Shall I make it up today?" She nodded, and off I went to shelve books. I imagined Vic Damone singing to me as I put Saint Thomas, He Who Doubted on the shelf after The Little Flower: A Model for Catholic Girlhood but before Saint Virgil, Missionary to the Slavs.

  22

  The Bum Shelter

  My father goes to work, washes the car, and reads the newspaper. That's about it, except for sometimes on hot, breathless summer nights when the fan isn't enough to cool us. Then he piles us all in the Buick to go for a drive. Usually we head toward the beach, but it really doesn't matter—it's the soft summer air blowing in the windows that we want. My mother and father talk softly in the front seat, but the sound of the wind through the windows drowns out their words. In the backseat where Dolores and I sit, with Artie pressed up against one or the other of us, it's warm and heavy and quiet, like we're packed in cotton. The air blows in, my damp hair lifts off my neck, the sky darkens, and I feel like I could ride forever.

  But that's only sometimes. Mostly he goes to work, washes the car, and reads the newspaper. That's why I was so surprised when he started digging around in the backyard.

  "Fred, my tomatoes!" my mother said.

  "Never mind tomatoes. This is more important."

  "What is?"

  He grinned. "Its a surprise."

  In the mornings and after work, he dug and dug until there was a big hole right in our backyard. We tried guessing what it might be. A swimming pool, Dolores said. A fort, said Artie. My mother was hoping for a goldfish pond. I thought he would probably get tired of the digging and it would just stay a big hole. When we asked him about it, he repeated, "It's a surprise."

  One Saturday after breakfast, he said, "Don't go yet, family. I have something to discuss with you." We all sat down again. "You know what that is in the backyard?" he asked.

  "A hole," said Artie.

  "Yes, a hole. And that hole may save our lives someday," he said. "Arthur, you may go and play."

  "Because I knew the answer?"

  "Yes, that's right."

  Once Artie was gone, my father said, "The boy is too young to have to worry about the danger we're in, but I want us to be prepared. Russia has the bomb, China will be next, and we'll likely be their target. I got these from the Federal Civil Defense Administration." He held up two small mustard-yellow pamphlets: "You Can Survive the Bomb if You Know the Dangers and How to Escape Them" and "Preparing to Survive a Nuclear Attack." "President Truman says we don't know when or where the attack will come. We must be ready. I want you to read these pamphlets carefully. And this one," he said, holding up "Building the Family-Sized Atomic Safety Shelter," "will tell us how to have an A-number-one bombproof shelter in our own backyard, complete with food and water, a radio, and all necessary supplies."

  A bomb shelter? Nuclear attack? A weight sat on my chest and I could hardly breathe. Mr. Bowman had said the H-bomb could mean the end of every living thing, and even if someone could survive, he wouldn't want to live in the world that was left. Was he right? Or could my father and the government really keep us safe? I didn't know.

  "How much will this cost, Fred?" my mother asked.

  "Doesn't matter. The protection of my family is beyond price. But we can come up with a ballpark figure." He licked the tip of his pencil and started to write on a yellow tablet. "Mattresses or sleeping bags. Bottled water. Lorraine, you make us a food list," he said, nodding to my mother. "Now, we'll need a battery-powered radio—"

  "Can we have two?" Dolores asked. "What if I want to listen to something different from—"

  "Dolores, the radio is for emergencies, not jitterbugging. One radio. A generator. A flashlight. First-aid kit. Air filter and exhaust pump. Geiger counter and radiation-proof suits." He licked the pencil point again. "To construct the shelter itself, we'll need cement. Steel beams. Insulation."

  "Could we really live in there, Fred?" my mother asked. "What would we use for a toilet? Where would we bathe? And what would we do with garbage?"

  "Will there be someplace to hang my clothes?" Dolores asked.

  I jumped up. "Holy cow, Dolores. We're talking about Russia dropping a bomb on us. We're talkin
g about living or maybe dying in a hole in the ground, and you're worried about radios and clothes! Don't be stupid."

  "That's enough, Francine," my father said. "Sit down and be quiet. You too, Dolores." He licked the pencil point once more. "We'll only be in the shelter for five days. This pamphlet says radioactivity is seldom harmful, but we should wait an hour before going outside to give it a chance to die down. However, to be safe, I'm planning for us to stay in the shelter for five days."

  Five days? But we'd seen in newsreels what Japan looked like after the bomb. What good would it do us to be underground for an hour or even five days? I felt sick to my stomach.

  "I'll prepare a budget for building and equipping the shelter," my father said then. "Lorraine, figure out the cost of the food. You girls make a list of what you'll need—school-books and essentials—I said essentials. I'll call another meeting when we have all the information."

  "You know, Francine," Dolores said as we left the table, "I may not be a brain like you, but I'm not such an idiot that I don't worry about the bomb and stuff sometimes. I just try not to. What good does it do?"

  I shrugged. "No good, I guess, but how can you stop?"

  An airplane flew overhead. We both stiffened and held our breath until it passed.

  Dolores and I looked at each other. We were thinking the same thing. I could see it in her eyes: Not this time. The communists didn't blow us to bits ... this time.

  "Come here, Frannie. Come look," Artie called from his room.

  There was a Lincoln Log fortress growing on his floor. "What are you building?" 1 asked as I flopped down beside him.

  "A place for bums to go."

  "What does that mean?" I asked.

  "You know, a shelter. For bums. I heard Dad talking about it. A bum shelter."