The Loud Silence of Francine Green (7 page)

"Of course not," Dolores said when I asked her about a ride. "People don't take their kid sisters on their dates."

"But this is really, really, really important," I said. "Name your price."

She looked at me. "Okay. Dishes for a week. And you'll write my next history paper."

"Done." And it was. At six thirty Wally Dolores, and I picked up Sophie in his parents' yellow Packard. I had to wear the old beige dress I wore for church and visiting relatives, but I did have new black flats. And I wore a powder-blue beret of Dolores's over my forehead instead of my beanie. It had cost me another week of dishes.

I bounced and squealed in the backseat until Wally stopped the car. "Pipe down, squirt," he said, "or you're walking the rest of the way." I piped down.

People were already gathering when we got to the theater. "We're going to play miniature golf and catch a burger at the Kentucky Boys," Wally said as we got out of the car. "We'll pick you up at nine. Be ready or walk home."

Sophie and I pushed our way to the front of the crowd. "In only one hour Monty will be here," I told Sophie.

We read all the movie posters and then stood and stared for a while. "In only fifty-five minutes Monty will be here," I said.

We looked around, watched people walk down the street, and read the movie posters again. "In only fifty minutes Monty will be here."

"Jeeps, enough, Francine," Sophie said.

So we waited. And waited. By eight fifteen I could stand it no longer. "Did we miss them?" I asked no one in particular. "Or maybe they're not coming. Oh no, could it be they're not coming?"

"Take it easy, little girl," said an older woman behind me. "They're stars—they're never on time."

And sure enough, it was eight thirty before a limousine pulled up. I started to jump up and down and scream, but it was only Olivia de Havilland, who was in the movie with Monty. She got out and waved to the crowd, who cheered, except for me. I was saving my cheers for Monty.

A few minutes later another limousine came. Out stepped Elizabeth Taylor, gorgeous in white mink and a dress that looked like blue whipped cream. And behind her, standing on the same earth, in the same city, on the same block as Francine Green, was Montgomery Clift. In person.

He was so small and thin in his tuxedo, like he needed taking care of. I wanted to hold him and tell him it would be all right. My face grew hot, my heart pounded, and I had a funny, fluttery feeling in my stomach. Montgomery Clift. The actual Montgomery Clift, right in front of me. He waved once or twice to the crowd but mostly kept his eyes down. There was no smile on his beautiful face.

Women around us started jumping up and down, yelling, "I love you, Monty," and "Monty, look at me, Monty," and "Here, over here, Monty." Next to me Sophie, being Sophie, shouted, "Ban the bomb!"

Monty stopped walking and turned his head toward us. "He's looking at us!" I screamed. "Right at us!" And he was. At Sophie and at me. Montgomery Clift and I were attached, one on each side of his glance. I was overcome.

We rode home in silence, the way you do after church sometimes. Wally dropped Sophie off, and as soon as
Dolores and I got home, I climbed into bed. It had been a momentous day. I had seen Montgomery Clift. I wondered if he would remember me, if he was lying in bed that very moment thinking, "I wonder who that brown-haired girl in the blue beret and new black flats was." The thought made my heart pound and my stomach flutter. I knew I'd never get to sleep that night. In fact, I'd probably never sleep again. But it was worth it. I had seen Montgomery Clift and, even better, he had seen me.

"
Sister Basil the Great,
" the Perfect and Admirable Mary-Agnes Malone said, "Sophie Bowman was causing trouble while you were out of the room." When Sister was called away for a few minutes, she always left Mary Agnes in charge. And Mary Agnes always squealed on any girl who took a wrong breath or spoke out loud or shared her homework.

"Ah, the brazen Sophie Bowman," said Sister, shaking her head. "Do you know how close you are to the fires of Hell?"

Sophie stood up. "Does God really send people to Hell for asking questions? Because that's all I was doing—asking a question. About the religion homework. I wanted to know whether if you crossed the international dateline on a Friday morning and it changed to Saturday, you could then eat meat. And if you crossed the other way on Sunday, would you have to go to Mass again the next day? And if—"

Sister marched herself down the aisle and grabbed Sophie's hands. "Why are your hands red?"

"I dyed all my underwear red and the dye won't wash off my skin." Sophie grinned. "It was a protest against the mindless conformity of uniforms."

A chorus of snorts sounded, and Gert whispered, loudly, "What a weirdie!"

"You are flirting with danger, you foolish girl!" Sister said. "The communists,
the Reds,
are at this very moment destroying families, murdering priests, and preparing to invade our country, and you dye your underwear red. Do you want people to think you are a communist? Have you no sense?" Sister turned and examined the room. "You, Miss Mouse," she said to Florence Bush, "I don't have to keep my eye on you. Change seats with Miss Bowman. I want her right here where I can watch her."

Florence, her face flushed with embarrassment, took her books and her lunch bag and moved to Sophie's desk. Sophie sat down in Florence's former seat, the desk right in front of me. She stuck her red hand behind her and waggled "hello" at me.

Not ten minutes had passed when Sophie's hand waggled again. This time there was a folded piece of paper in it. I ignored her, but the waggling got more and more frantic, until I was sure both of us would be standing in the trash can, so 1 took the note from her hand.

Do
you believe all that about communists killing priests and trying to take over our country? I don't think it's true. Do you?

I wrote an answer and stuck it in her hand:
I think communists are pretty scary, Soph, now they have the bomb and everything.

We
have the bomb, too,
she wrote.
Maybe they think we're pretty scary.

A few minutes later a red hand waggled at me again.
Did Susan Murphy ever find out whether nuns wear black underwear?

I don't know. She never said.

You told me to ask you my questions instead of Sister Not-So-Great, but fat lot of good you are. I'll just have to ask her.

No don't,
I was writing when Sophie's hand popped up. "Sister, I was just wondering," she said.

Sister smiled.

The trash can was but a short walk from Sophie's new desk. I looked at the statue of the Virgin Mary in the corner. Her face was gentle but sad, not only for her son, Jesus, who suffered and died on the cross, but for poor Sophie in the wastebasket, the pagan babies in Africa, and all the rest of us, worrying about Hell and communists and bombs.

Sophie had to stay after school for the crime of laughing out loud in the bathroom (the Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone was bathroom monitor, of course, assisted by her sidekick, the weasely Weslia Babchuk). I took the bus home alone.

Before Sophie came, I was alone a lot. Oh, I wasn't a hermit or an outcast or anything. I always had someone to eat lunch with and play hangman with on rainy days. But I didn't have a best friend.

Sometimes I went home with Florence or had Mary
Virginia Mulcahy come to my house, and in the fourth grade my paper dolls and I suffered with Mary Agnes Malone, but I just didn't fit in with the other groups—not the wild girls or the pious ones or the Future Homemakers of America. I wasn't like them, and being different felt wrong, so I kept quiet about it.

In the third grade Margaret Mary Russell and I spent some Saturdays together at the children's matinee. My parents gave me a nickel for the movie and another one for popcorn and then dropped us off for the double feature. Margaret Mary's mother picked us up. Her father died in the war and I was not supposed ever to mention the war or dying or fathers to Margaret Mary. My mother said she was fragile.

When we were lining up for the May Day procession that year, Margaret Mary whispered to me, "The whole school smells like flowers. Sort of like how I imagine Heaven."

Sister Basil, passing by, grabbed Margaret Mary's arm and shook her. "You, girl, no talking in line!" Margaret Mary was so frightened that she peed, right there in line in the hallway. The pee ran down her legs and puddled on the floor.

Margaret Mary didn't come back to All Saints, and I went to the movies on Saturdays with Dolores, who complained that she was much too old for children's matinees, except once when the film for
My Pal Trigger
broke and we got to see Gregory Peck and Ingrid Bergman in
Spellbound
instead. I stayed out of Sister Basil's way after that, and I never, ever, talked in line.

But now I had Sophie. We agreed about so many things,
like uniforms, chocolate ice cream, and Dolores. We laughed at the same dumb stuff and hated the same people.

And the fact that we had one big difference didn't get in the way. I was a coward, and Sophie was brave. She didn't worry about getting in trouble and wasn't afraid of Sister Basil at all. I must admit I sort of enjoyed her standing up for herself and making trouble for Sister, as long as it didn't make any trouble for me.

When I was six or seven, during the war, I used to see posters pasted up warning people against leaking government secrets. One poster showed a sinking ship with the words
Loose Lips Sink Ships.
Another had a drowning soldier over the caption
Someone Talked.
I had nightmares for weeks afterward, worried that something I said had caused some poor soldier to drown. I didn't know just what a first grader could say to cause such a tragedy, but I took no chances. I just kept quiet. I guess it became kind of a habit.

During dinner that night I got a phone call from Sophie. "Big trouble, Francine," she said. "I'm under house arrest. Can't leave the house except for school and can't talk on the phone for two weeks. Two weeks!"

"You're on the phone now."

"That's because my jailer just went into the bathroom and took his newspaper. We have a few minutes."

"What happened?"

"My red underwear turned our laundry pink. Everything—sheets, towels, his undershirts and handkerchiefs—pink. You should see them hanging on the line. Pink."

I started to laugh, but she said, "Not funny, Francine!
I'm locked in the house with a very angry man in a pink undershirt who will make me read improving books and have serious conversations with him for
two whole weeks.
I will just die."

"Can I send you a care package, like people do for starving children?"

"Yes, yes. A Baby Ruth, some notepaper, and a bottle of root beer. Please."

"Okay, I'll—"

"Got to go. I just heard the toilet flush. Leave it in the bushes outside my window."

When I told my father what had happened at the Bowmans', he laughed. "This sure doesn't seem like a good time for a person to run around in a pink wardrobe," he said. "Pinkos aren't very popular right now."

Pinko. I knew that meant communist, like Red. I knew communists came from Russia and were people to be afraid of. I knew Sister thought they were evil and godless and would destroy our immortal souls as well as our country. Would people think Mr. Bowman was a communist because his undershirt was pink? Would he be arrested and sent to Russia? How long did pink dye stay in a person's clothes? And where would I get the money for a root beer
and
a Baby Ruth?

I took a deep breath
before stepping into Riley's Drugs. My mother had sent me for bobby pins and aspirin. I was going to take the opportunity to flirt with Gordon Riley. My hair had grown out enough, so it looked like something someone might have done on purpose, but I checked my reflection in the glass door to make sure. I remembered all the things Dolores had told me and practiced asking questions about hot rods and butterfat as I walked to the back of the store.

The soda counter was nearly empty, except for Gordon, a trio of older ladies with their silver hair in hair nets, and a couple of boys shooting the papers from soda straws at the ladies. I took a seat at the end of the counter, my heart skipping and my stomach doing back flips. Gordon Riley and Montgomery Clift did that to me.

"Root beer float with chocolate ice cream, right?" Gordon said when he saw me. Sophie and I had been in lots
of times for root beer floats with chocolate ice cream. Sophie always ordered for both of us. I had yet to exchange a word with Gordon myself.

My face grew hot. 1 nodded, and the root beer float appeared in front of me.

"I know your name is Francine," he said to me. "Mine's Gordon."

My bones were melting. I nodded and took a slurp of my root beer.

"You go to school around here?"

I shook my head and took another slurp.

"I'm at University High, a sophomore," he said. "You know anyone there?"

I shook my head again. Ye gods. I was such a droop. A dishrag, a sad sack, a dope. Gordon Riley was right there talking to me and I couldn't say a word. Just sat there with my face red, slurping up root beer. Ye gods.

A teenaged couple, holding hands, sat down, and Gordon went over to serve them. I kept slurping until the grating noise of the last drops echoed along the counter.

Someone grabbed me from behind and shouted, "Gotcha!" I jumped a mile into the air.

Gert Miller and Margie McGonigle slid onto the stools on either side of me. "Wow! You should have seen your face!" Margie shrieked. "What were you thinking about so hard?"

"Never mind," I said, pushing my empty glass away. "I'm leaving."

"No, stay," said Gert. "Sorry we scared you. C'mon, stay.
I'll buy you another root beer float." She called out to Gordon, "Three root beer floats, my good man, and don't skimp on the ice cream."

"We're drowning our sorrows," Margie said. "I was planning to have a slumber party over Christmas vacation, but my dad got a look at my report card." She cocked her head toward Gert. "And her mother drinks, you know, so we can't have it at her house." Gert nodded.