The Loud Silence of Francine Green (11 page)

"That should be okay, then." I didn't think there were communist dentists, but still I was anxious. Sister once said that most movie people were communists. I hoped there wouldn't be communists at the benefit, kidnapping people and shipping them to Russia or East Germany.

"What kind of movies does your father write?" I asked Sophie, worried that she'd say communist propaganda films about the glories of Russia.

"He's a serious drama kind of guy."

"Like what? I've never seen 'Written by Mr. Harry Bowman' up on the screen."

"That's because there's no movie yet with his name on it. He says he writes a script, someone is brought in to rewrite, someone else to mutilate, and someone else to destroy. And the destroyer gets the screen credit."

That couldn't be true. I was certain that movie people were as wonderful as the movies. Maybe Mr. Bowman just wasn't a very good writer yet. "What if he wrote a movie for Montgomery Clift someday? Wouldn't that be too much?" I rocked quietly for a minute, relishing the thought. "What about you?" I asked her finally. "Do you think you'll be a writer, too?"

"You bet. I'm going to be a crusading reporter and expose injustice wherever I find it." She leaned over and picked up the shiny wooden nut bowl from the coffee table. After examining all the nuts carefully, she selected one. "I'll never get married—no husband, no kids. Just dogs. And a green convertible." The nutcracker closed on the nut with a sharp sound. "What about you?"

Be an actor,
Miss Velma had said, but I wasn't ready to tell anyone about that yet, not even Sophie. "Probably I'll just live with my parents all my life," I told her. "Maybe they'll let me get a cat or a parakeet or something." I thought about it while Sophie continued demolishing nuts. Catholic girls who didn't become nuns were supposed to be Catholic wives and mothers. I didn't want to be a nun, but I couldn't imagine getting married. I still hadn't spoken a word to Gordon, much less had a date. I'd have to get a job somewhere.

My father worked for a company on Wilshire Boulevard that built housing developments in the San Fernando Valley. He was a member of the International Federation of Professional and Technical Engineers, and his union dues were the only bill he ever paid without grumbling. My mother did the laundry made martoonies, and cut out coupons to save money. For fun they played canasta and listened to
Fibber McGee and Molly
on the radio. I didn't want to be like them.

The question of my future had been on my mind ever since Vocation Day when our class was visited by student nuns from the Order of Mary Help of Sinners, to which our Sisters belonged. They visited eighth-grade classes all over Los Angeles every year to share with us the joys of nunhood, joys so great we would want to be like them—living together all their lives, never getting married or having babies, singing and praying and working in eternal poverty, chastity, and obedience.

The student nuns were young and perky, not at all the type I would imagine wanting to be nuns. They wore short skirts and tiny white veils that left their hair mostly uncovered. One called Miss O'Hara giggled a lot and had wavy red hair that fell to her waist. I couldn't imagine why she'd want to hide in a convent all her life.

After the visitors left, Sister Basil had asked us, "How many of you girls aspire to join the Holy Sisterhood?"

The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone was the first to raise her hand, of course, and then most of the girls raised theirs, too. Susan, Gert, Sophie, and I were the only ones with our hands still folded on our desks. Sister stared
at Susan until her hand went up, and then Gert's followed. It was just Sophie and me. Unlike most Catholic girls, I'd never wanted to be a nun. I thought about being a saint sometimes—it seemed the highest calling to which a Catholic girl could aspire, since Mother of God was already taken—but never a nun.

Sister walked a little way down the aisle and stood next to my desk, looking right at me, her black eyebrows like a slash across her white face. When she raised her left eyebrow, I could feel my hand begin to rise, as if a string were tied from that eyebrow to my arm. Slowly, slowly, up it went. And Sister nodded.

She looked at Sophie for a minute but shrugged and walked away. Even Sister Basil could only do so much.

A note was waggled at me.
A nun? You don't really want to, do you?

Jeepers, no. I didn't want to raise my hand, but it was like I couldn't help it. I think Sister Rotten has magical powers.

Could you believe the part about poverty, chastity, and obedience?

No money, no men, and no mind of your own. Sounds a lot like my life.

Suddenly Sister was standing beside me, so close I could smell the slightly sweet and soapy nun smell of her. She was swinging her rosary beads and smiling. "Francine, would you care to share with the class what you find so interesting?"

My heart jumped and a shiver ran through my body. Sophie stood up, pocketing the note. "It was not Francine but me, Sister," she said. "I was being rude, impertinent, and
blasphemous, as usual. Do you want me to go stand in the trash can?"

"Sit down," Sister growled.

Since that day a week ago 1 had been wondering about my future. And now Sophie had asked, "What about you?" Well, what about me? Could I really be an actress? I imagined myself on a movie set with Montgomery Clift or Clark Gable, starring in some romantic drama, tingling with excitement, opening my mou—...That's as far as 1 got. Even in my daydream I couldn't open my mouth. It would take some sort of miracle to turn
me
into a movie star.

"I suppose I could work in a pet store," I told Sophie, "feed the hamsters or something." Yes, that sounded more like me.

The afternoon drifted away. And the whole week. Still no letter from Monty. On Saturday we went to the movie. Mr. Mandelbaum played a friendly shopkeeper named Mr. Smiley. He still seemed like Mr. Mandelbaum, only in a white apron. I don't know if I'd call that
acting.

I was nervous, but no communists tried to kidnap me. It was just a movie.

It was raining again
as I walked Sophie home after school. "Want to stay for dinner?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I have to find a book for my book report."

"My dad has a million books in his den. You can borrow one of them."

We went into a small room lined with bookcases to the ceiling. Photographs of Franklin Roosevelt, Jackie Robinson, and a woman who looked a lot like Sophie stood on the desk.

"Here," Sophie said, grabbing a book off the seat of a soft leather chair. "Try this."

"Are you crazy?" I said, examining the book jacket. "I can't do a report on a book named
The Naked and the Dead.
Sister would hang me by my ears in the playground."

Sophie laughed and poked me with her elbow. "I know, dummy. I was joking."

"A joke? Really? It's about time," I said.

She pulled another book from the shelves. "How about this one? My father actually laughed."

There was a soldier or sailor or somebody on the cover. "I don't like war books."

She held the book above her head. "Well, perhaps that's for the best," she said. "There's no guns or fighting in this, but from what I hear, it's not exactly for children. Maybe it's too old for y—"

I grabbed it.
Mr. Roberts.
It had to be better than
Dotty Dimple Out West.
I looked around the room. "So many books," I said. The books we owned wouldn't have filled half a shelf. "Did your father write any of them?" I asked Sophie.

"No, he mostly just writes his movie scripts, which mostly don't get made into movies, even when the studio assigns him one to write, which they aren't doing right now."

"Why not?"

"He thinks it's because he helped with the benefit for Jacob Mandelbaum. His agent told him he's suspected of having 'communist sympathies.'"

Jeepers. Was that true? I looked quickly around the room, afraid I'd see a hammer and sickle magically appear on the wall. "Does he?"

"Have communist sympathies? You mean, like trying to help a friend who can't work because of his beliefs? Belonging to the Screenwriters' Guild and the Committee for the First Amendment? If you call that having communist sympathies, then yes, I guess he does." She sat down, and
her shoulders slumped. She pushed her hair back in that way she did. "I'm worried about him. What if he can't work? Or gets put in jail? What would I
do?
"

I couldn't imagine Mr. Bowman in jail. I couldn't imagine any of it—A-bombs and H-bombs, communist sympathies, losing your job or worse. It was like something out of a horror movie. "You could always live with us, Sophie." I said, "but probably it won't come to that. Maybe you could talk to your father and ask him to be more careful. Not speak up so much or call attention to himself. Not get involved. Maybe he should—"

"Give it a rest, Francine," she said. "What do you know about it?" Her words were clipped and sharp edged, as if she had cut them with a knife.

I was startled and a little bit hurt. If free speech meant Mr. Bowman saying what he really thought, then free speech meant I could say what I thought. But Sophie didn't seem to see it that way.

All the talk about communists made my stomach hurt. I didn't feel like staying for dinner. I told Sophie I had to go home, even though it was my mother's meatless Wednesday—spaghetti and rice balls. You'd think there was still a war on.

Sophie walked me toward the front door. Mr. Bowman was sitting on the couch with a martini, listening to the radio. He didn't even notice us. "Today," the voice on the radio was saying, "Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin claimed he had a list of 205 people working in our government who are known to be members of the Communist Party."

Mr. Bowman grunted and took a sip of his martini. When the newscast paused for a commercial—"Lucky Strike means fine tobacco"—I sat down on the arm of the couch. "Is that true?" I asked Mr. Bowman. "Are there really communists in the government?"

"I don't know, Francine," he said, "and neither does Senator McCarthy or anyone else. And what if there are? Is there any proof that they are disloyal or dangerous or planning to overthrow the government? Innocent people will suffer, mark my words."

I stomped in puddles all the way home. I was not happy (splash!). I wanted the world to be clean and neat, black and white. I wanted the bad guys to be punished, the good rewarded, and I wanted it to be easy to tell who was who (splash!). I wanted the government to be right and fair, to keep us safe and out of war. I wanted communists to go back to Russia and get rid of their bombs. I wanted Americans to get rid of
our
bombs (splash!). I wanted the world to be like I thought it was when I was four or five. It was much too scary now that I was thirteen (splash!
splash!
).

To take my mind off communists and bombs, I started reading
Mr. Roberts
when I got home. I kept reading, even through the boring parts. I wanted to see what had made Mr. Bowman laugh.

Mr. Roberts
is the story of the men aboard a supply ship in the South Pacific in World War Two. They didn't fight but took food and toothpaste and toilet paper to those who did. The captain of the ship was mean and nasty, and all the men hated him. They called him Stupid behind his back. Stupid
grew palm trees in buckets by the door of his cabin. They were the joy of his life. Mr. Roberts was the first lieutenant. The men loved him because he stood up for them when they got in trouble from the captain's stupid rules like no chewing gum or no taking off your shirt when it is hot. Once when the captain was especially mean to some poor sailor, Mr. Roberts threw the palm trees overboard. The crew made him a medal.

"I'm reading
Mr. Roberts,
" I told Sophie later, "but I can't write a book report about it."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Are you kidding? Sister would never approve. It's all about sailors drinking, using bad language, and chasing women."

"So what? Probably that's what sailors do."

I shook my head. "Doesn't matter. Sister would never approve. How come your father read this, anyway? I thought he only read serious books that improve your mind."

"Someone gave it to him. She thought it might make a good movie."

"I guess it would if they left out all the boring parts."

I didn't have time to read another book, so I wrote a report on
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
again. I got a B+. At No Sinners, being approved is more important than being original.

When I got home from school,
I checked the mail. Still nothing from Montgomery Clift.

Dolores called from our bedroom, "Francine, is that you?" She grabbed me as I walked in. "I need your help."

Me? Dolores was asking me for help? I was overcome and speechless.

"You know the high school is doing
Oklahoma!?
"

I nodded.

"Well, I'm going to try out."

"But Dolores, you can't sing a note."

"I'm sure there'll be some non-singing parts."

"How could there be—it's a musical."

Dolores socked me in the arm. "Stop interrupting. As I said, long ago, before you started pestering me about singing, I want to try out. I have to prepare a scene for my audition. Will you help me?"

"You mean like act with you, in front of people?" My
legs turned to jelly at the very thought. Obviously I wasn't ready to be a movie star yet. "I couldn't, I just couldn't."

"You don't have to audition, you drip, just help me find a scene to do and rehearse it with me."

"What kind of scene?"

"I don't know. Doesn't one of those books you're always reading have a scene I could act out?"

I thought for a moment. "I have a great idea. We just saw a movie about Father Damien in class. You know, the priest who went to Hawaii to work with lepers whose noses and ears were falling off and stuff." Dolores grimaced. "Just listen. Every day he preached to them, beginning, 'My friends.' One day he was soaking his feet in a bucket of boiling water and he could not feel the heat, and he knew that meant he had caught leprosy. So the next morning he stood up to give his sermon, and he said, 'My fellow lepers,' and everyone knew that he had leprosy too. Isn't that the end? It breaks me up every time. You could do that scene for your audition. 'My fellow lepers.' It just kills me."