The Loud Silence of Francine Green (16 page)

He climbed up onto a chair. "I'm making a card. For Mommy. For Mother's Day. See?" He showed it to me and then stuck it under Sophie's nose.

"Take a hike, squirt," she said, brushing glitter off her face.

"It's very pretty, Artie," I said. "Go and hide it so Mother doesn't see it until Sunday.

"Sophie," I said to her after Artie left, "you could be nicer to him. He's just a little kid."

"You know I don't like little kids."

It was more than that, I suddenly realized. "You don't much like anybody except in big groups, like 'the poor' or 'the persecuted' or 'those who fight fascism.' People separately you don't like. Come on, admit it."

"That's ridiculous. I like Jacob Mandelbaum. And Harry." I raised one eyebrow at her as she stopped to think of somebody else. "And I used to like you," she said.

"And I like you," I said, "anyway." I brushed glitter off
my uniform skirt. "Wasn't Artie's card cute, with that crooked heart and the glue all smeared around? Do you remember the cards you made in school? Glitter angels on the Christmas cards. Drawing around your hand to make turkeys for Thanksgiving. Mother's Day cards made out of doilies and paper flowers. Remember?"

"What I remember is the vacant lot near school where I threw the Mother's Day cards every year because I didn't have a mother to give them to."

"Sorry, Soph. I forgot."

She waved my apology away. "I got used to it. I thought once about giving the cards to Harry, since he's the closest thing to a mother I've ever had. But he's not very good at mother things, like cooking or having birthday parties or saying 'You're not going anywhere until you polish your shoes, young lady' So I just threw them away."

"Is it kind of lonesome, not celebrating Mother's Day when the rest of the world does?"

"Jeeps, Francine, of course we celebrate. It's Mother's Day." She tucked her hair behind her ears in that way of hers. "Each year we plant another rosebush in the yard. Harry says my mother loved roses almost as much as she loved him. This year after pancakes at the Pig and Whistle, we're going to hear Beethoven's Fifth Symphony at the Hollywood Bowl. What are you doing for your mother?"

"Who knows?" I said. Actually, I did know, but I was embarrassed to tell Sophie, who was going to the Hollywood Bowl.

"Can I stay for dinner tonight?" Sophie asked.

"Dinner at the Greens'? Why would you want to do that?"

"I like it here."

"You won't when you hear what we're having for dinner. Liver."

"I like liver," said Sophie.

"Oh nausea." I poked her in the ribs. "Come on, we'll ask my mother. I'm sure she'll say yes, but then you'll have to eat her terrible food."

"You know, Francine, you're pretty unfair to your mother."

"Ye gods, Sophie, what do you mean?"

"I mean she's your mother and she takes care of you and wipes your face with a cool cloth when you're sick and tries to cook things you would like. She's sweet and nice, and all you do is complain about her."

"She's sweet and nice to
you,
but if she were
your
mother, you'd know what I mean."

Sophie was quiet for a minute and then said, "Maybe."

Sunday was Mother's Day. My mother wore a new hat to church. Navy with a veil and white paper flowers. She made my father go to Mass with us. Usually he spends Sunday mornings asleep in the lawn chair. He says that God is just as likely to be in our backyard as in a building in West Los Angeles.

I myself like going to Mass. It's kind of like a movie or a play starring Jesus and Mary and the saints, with costumes and music. My favorite part is the ringing of the church bells. Sometimes on clear, still mornings, I can hear them
from my bed. The bells are the best thing about Sunday morning, besides Mass, no school, and pancakes with blueberry syrup from Knott's Berry Farm.

After Mass we ate cheese and crackers and carrot sticks because we had fasted for Holy Communion. We ate them in the car on the way to Forest Lawn. Yes, Forest Lawn. The cemetery. That's where my mother likes to go for special occasions, the cemetery. She enjoys seeing where the movie stars are buried. I may be crazy about movie stars, but I draw the line at dead ones.

To be honest, Forest Lawn is a lot more than a cemetery. It's like a very clean, quiet city, with churches and museums, trees and statues and ponds. Only the people are all dead.

We parked the car and got out—all except Dolores, who stayed behind to sulk because she hadn't been allowed to go to the Brown Derby Restaurant with Wally and his mother.

There were plenty of living people in Forest Lawn that day, putting flowers on their mothers' graves. They walked slowly between the stones, talking quietly to each other. But my mother ran and shouted. "Here," she called as we got to the crest of a hill, "here's Tom Mix. And there, Jean Harlow. And look, Carole Lombard!" She cried a little then because of the tragic way Carole Lombard died, in an airplane crash when she was traveling the country to sell war bonds. My mother sold bonds during the war too. She still wears a baggy gray suit she made out of an old suit of my father's and used the money she saved to buy war bonds. She calls it "the suit that helped win the war."

"Fred," my mother called, "here's Humphrey Bogart's mother!"

Holy cow. I sat down under a tree and just waited for my mother to stop embarrassing me. I watched her running from grave to grave, her hair springing loose from her bun and curling around her face. Her face was rosy with joy and the sun. Suddenly I was feeling about her the way you are supposed to feel about your mother on Mother's Day. I smiled at that and lay down in the coolness of the grass.

When we were all in the car again, she said, "Now, Fred, I would like to go out to a restaurant for lunch." My mother said that. My penny-pinching mother who clipped coupons from the magazines at the dentist's office, reused waxed paper, and canned her own tomatoes. A new hat
and
out to eat. What was getting into her? If I didn't know her so well, I'd think she had a boyfriend or something.

"Blue blazes, Lorraine," my father said. "I'm not made of money."

"And not the Tail of the Pup, either. Someplace where we can sit down." She smiled. "And I might even have a cocktail."

"Blue blazes," my father said again.

Susan was back in school
after her forced vacation for drawing flowers on her uniform skirt. Sister nodded as Susan, in a fresh, clean, undecorated skirt, took her seat.

"Holy cow, Susan," I said, "did you have to get a new skirt? Did your father blow his top?"

Susan smiled and pointed to the weasely Weslia Babchuk, whose skirt was a familiar riot of flowers. "Sister will never think to check what Weslia is wearing, and then when she forgets all about my skirt, I'll take it back again."

"But how did you get the weasely Weslia to agree?"

"It's amazing how valuable a cute brother can be," Susan said.

"Scooter the drip? And weasely Weslia? I'm shocked."

"People change," Susan said, waving to Weslia, who winked at her. I saw Susan fingering the fabric of Weslia's skirt, clearly imagining how much better it would look with a few roses and daisies drawn on it.

After recess the new assistant pastor at Saint Mel's came to school to introduce himself. His name is Father Charles, but it was Chuckie when he was a teenager and visited his grandparents next door to us. Chuckie was there every weekend, working on his car, singing dirty lyrics to holy hymns, and saying "hubba hubba" whenever a female walked by.

Father Chuckie is young and very handsome, so the girls in my class think he's drooly. That's because he never held
them
upside down over the storm drain. He told us he was there for all of us young people, and if we ever had any questions or problems, we could come to him.

"Could we talk to you about sins of the flesh?" Susan asked.

Father Chuckie blushed but said, "Yes, when you're old enough."

"We're old enough now," Susan went on. "Why, I—"

"That will do, Susan," Sister said.

Sophie raised her hand and Father Chuckie nodded to her. "Well, Father," she said, "I would like to know if priests are allowed—"

"Thank you, Sophie. That's enough," said Sister. "Mary Agnes, perhaps
you
have a question for Father."

The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone stood up slowly and smoothed down her skirt. "Father, could you recommend suitable readings for a girl who aspires to enter the Holy Sisterhood?"

Father Chuckie beamed. "Yes, yes, come see me. I'll be happy to instruct you. And any other of you girls who are
considering a life of service to God." Mary Agnes sat down again.

I took a deep breath. "Father," I said, rising slowly to my feet, "could I maybe come talk to you about communists and the government and the FBI? It's all so confusing and—"

"Thank you, Francine," Sister Basil said, "but Father meant he will talk to you about matters of religion and morals. I'll tell you what you need to know about the evils of communism."

"But Sister—"

"Sit down, Francine," Sister said.

I sat.

Every day now I heard Walter Winchell on the radio talk about secret communists in this country. Hedda Hopper's newspaper column warned us daily that some writer or actor or newspaperman was "pink." Every day I saw newspapers and magazines telling us that the communists wanted our country and its children. They told us to be vigilant, to watch and listen for subversive talk, to turn in our neighbors or even our families if they seemed suspicious. And the result was what was happening to Jacob Mandelbaum.

And Sophie. The other girls all called her "comrade" and marched like soldiers behind her.
I
knew she wasn't a communist, but she wouldn't try to convince them otherwise. "And if I were, what would it matter?" Sophie asked me when I brought it up at lunch. "Not all communists are evil or planning to overthrow the government." She took a bite of her bologna sandwich. "Besides, every freedom
fighter has suffered the abuse of those who do not understand."

"But you're not fighting for freedom," I said to her. "You fight for the right to play the radio, to ask questions about God and nuns in underwear, and to say what you really think in school essays."

"Same thing," said Sophie. She wadded up her lunch bag and threw it across three tables into the trash can.

I felt a little dizzy, as if the earth had tilted a bit on its axis. Talking to Sophie often made me feel like that.

"I can't just be quiet and let wrong things happen," she continued. "Even little wrong things. I want to make a difference in this world. Don't you?"

"I don't know, Soph. Sometimes I just want to get out alive." We laughed. "You know what I mean. I just want to live my life without any problems, without getting into any trouble."

"I don't think that's possible," she said.

"Well, at least I can try."

After school I thought about Sophie while I worked in the library. I needed to talk to someone about her, and Sister Pete was right here. She was kind and a good listener. I would take the chance. I put
Stories of the Popes for the Primary Grades
in its place on the shelf and walked over to Sister Pete. I cleared my throat about seventeen times but said nothing.

"You will injure your vocal cords doing that, Francine," Sister Pete said. "What is it?"

"I just wondered whether ... I mean ... is it—"

"Francine!"

"Sister, is it right, you know, about Sophie? How she's treated?"

Sister Pete studied me for a moment. "And how is she treated?"

"The other girls tease her. And no one will be friends with her."

"Indeed, that is not how All Saints girls should behave, but perhaps Sophie brings some of it on herself. I don't see her making an effort to be friends with the other girls."

I had thought about that. "I think Sophie likes being an outsider. She thinks it makes her ... noble. But still it must hurt when the other girls make fun of her and call her names, even though she says it doesn't." I hesitated before going on but then plunged ahead. This could mean real trouble. "And Sister Basil doesn't help. She doesn't encourage the other girls to be nice to Sophie. In fact, Sister herself kind of ... you know ... sort of picks on Sophie and punishes her whenever Sophie opens her mouth."

"Francine, you and I both know Sophie deliberately provokes Sister."

I felt deflated. I'd hoped Sister Pete would take Sophie's side or at least try to understand her. "She's just speaking her mind."

"There is a time and place for everything, and Sister Basil's classroom is neither the time nor the place for speaking one's mind." Sister Pete patted the chair next to her and I sat down. "1 know Sister Basil seems harsh and unfair sometimes. But each nun is different, just as each person is
different. Sister Basil expects more quiet obedience and less ... well, liveliness from her girls. She is our principal, and we must honor and obey her."

"Maybe you could talk to Sister Bas—"

Sister Pete put up her hand. "I don't have the right to do that." She smiled. "Nor the courage." She was silent for a moment. "Sister Basil will not change, but Sophie can. Much of what Sophie suffers is the result of her own behavior. She can change that, and indeed, it is her responsibility to do so."

Sister leaned back and put her clasped hands behind the white bib of her habit. "Until then, perhaps her sufferings can bring her closer to Jesus if she bears the taunts and punishments gladly, as He bore the cross. Talk to her about it, Francine."

"Yes, Sister," I said.

Should I talk to Sophie? I wondered as I bounced home on the bus. I knew I myself had told her to be quiet and accept things, but now that advice just didn't seem right. Sophie needed someone to defend her and not just tell her to change or accept things gladly.

I thought Sister Basil was mean and unfair and Sister Pete was wrong. I couldn't help it. I did. I just hoped thinking that was not too bad a sin.