A Tiny Piece of Sky (10 page)

“Are you saying that Mr. Baum is a . . .”

“Like I said, Mr. Stannum, I'm not saying he is, and I'm not saying he isn't. I'm just asking that you keep your eyes and ears open. You know, now more than ever we've got to stay vigilant and protect this great country of ours. We won't be able to ignore what's happening in Europe for long, mark my words. We'll be in the thick of it soon enough, and when we are, we will need to know who we can trust and who we can't. And those we can't, well, we've got to bring the turncoats to their knees.” He handed Mr. Price a calling card. “If you do notice anything suspicious, it is your duty to give me a call.”

Mr. Stannum held the card gently in his palm.

“You've been very helpful, though, in filling in some of the blanks,” said Mr. Price, smiling. “I better be on my way. Please tell Mr. Baum I stopped by and that I have a few more questions to pose to him.”

Mr. Stannum nodded. “Will do, sir.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot.” Mr. Price unfolded an election poster from inside his jacket and retrieved a roll of tape from a pocket in his trousers. “I'll just fix this to the front window on my way out. And be sure to thank him for his support in the election.”

Mr. Stannum said, “I'll be sure to tell him you came by.”

“Incidentally, has my esteemed opponent paid a visit?”

“No,” said Mr. Stannum. “Not that I've seen.”

“You might've noticed there's not one single Robertson sign on the block,” said Mr. Price. “George Robertson, let me tell you, is not equipped for the job. I say that not as his opponent, but as a man. He doesn't have the wherewithal to protect our town, our citizens, from outsiders. He's a do-nothing. A musician, a jazz lover no doubt, who, if elected, God forbid, will do nothing for us. Do you know that he is divorced?”

“Uh, no,” said Mr. Stannum. “I didn't.”

“Shameful,” said Mr. Price. “Well, I better be on my way.”

“Good evening, Mr. Price,” said Mr. Stannum. “I'll see you out. I was just getting ready to lock up and head home.”

Frankie slowly pushed open the cupboard door. But that Mr. Price would not stop talking.

“You a family man, Stannum?”

Frankie closed the door again.

Mr. Stannum hesitated. “I'm not married, no.”

“Brothers or sisters in town?” asked Mr. Price.

“None to speak of,” said Mr. Stannum.

“How strange.”

“Well, I did have an older brother,” said Mr. Stannum.

“Did?”

“He was killed in the Great War.”

“Hmmm, that's too bad,” said Mr. Price. “Then you know what it means to make sacrifices for your country.”

“My brother, Tommy, he was the hero,” said Mr. Stannum. “Not me.”

“Yes, well, there are many ways to serve your country. An opportunity may arise in the future, and you may get your chance,” said Mr. Price. “Good evening.”

Frankie waited until the light in the crack of the cupboard door disappeared before she crawled out. Mr. Price had a lot of nerve saying those things about Daddy. And suggesting that he was a spy for Hitler! A spy! She was so fuming mad, she stormed out of the kitchen door into the alley. Before long she was beside Dixie, who was right where she'd left her, no surprise. What
was
a surprise, though, to both of them, was that Frankie had returned without any water.

“Oh, darn it all. I left the saucepan on the counter,” Frankie explained.

Dixie shook her head.

“No, I'm not going back in there. It's almost dark and we need to go home. Mother will have her cake turner out, for certain. And this time she just might use it.” Frankie climbed into the cart and snapped the reins. Alas, Dixie stood firm.

“Dixie!” Frankie yelled. “Move, you stubborn beast!”

Then, from somewhere nearby, they both heard music.

And wouldn't you know, that pony began to trot.

Don't tell me I'm scared, I done seen what you did

I said don't say I'm scared, I done seen what you did

You want me to look away, think I'm only a kid

You hopped a train, took yourself on a trip

I said you hopped a train, took yourself on a trip

Papa, you leave us alone, ain't coming back here with that whip

I'm a-countin' the days you been gone

I'm a-countin' the days you been gone

Someday, Papa, goin' to build me a railroad of my own

AS SHE AND DIXIE
went on, the music surrounded them like a fog. The closer they got, the warm air became so thick with sound that Frankie nearly had to brush away the notes from her face. They followed the sounds for one block on and then Frankie tried to steer Dixie down Washington Street, but Dixie would not turn. They were about to go down Jonathan Street, about to go into the part of town where she was not allowed to be. Frankie pulled hard on the reins. Dixie reared her head, but she did not stop. “No, Dixie. No, no, no. Not this way.”

Frankie pulled again. But as she did, one of the snaps on a line to Dixie's bit came apart and Frankie lost control. She held tight to the reins, but that did her no good. Frankie clung to her seat in the cart and yelled, “Whoa! Whoa!”

But music, even for a pony, has a way of taking you places.

They were heading into a forbidden part of town, and almost certain to wreck. Although Frankie wished she had something to throw at Dixie to get her attention—
Where's a stick of dynamite when you need it?
—and remind her who was in charge, the only thing in her dress pocket was her scab collection, and things weren't quite that dire yet. So, there was nothing to be done but hang on and hope that the lines to the cart held and that Dixie's legs would eventually grow weary.

Let me tell you, putting all your hopes into the Pony With a Human Brain may not have been the wisest decision, especially given Dixie's history, but what else was Frankie to do?

As Dixie trotted on, following the music, Frankie's own brain was thinking about the two pieces of harness she'd left lying on the ground in the backyard. She remembered there were buckles on them, not snaps. And what was it Joan told her about attaching lines with buckles? Something. She had told her something.

Dixie kept on until they found the source of the music on a sidewalk in front of a tattered apartment building. Three colored boys sitting on turned-over washbasins were carving out a stomping and grinding beat alongside a tune that was so full of gloom and agony, Frankie felt as though she were a stranger interrupting a funeral party. The Pony With the Human Brain apparently didn't feel the same way, because she stopped right in front of them and had herself a good listen. Although Frankie was relieved Dixie had finally come to a stop, she wished the pony had chosen a spot about a block or so away. For one thing, she wasn't sure these musicians wanted an audience. And for another, it wasn't polite to attend a funeral party without knowing the dead.

Frankie hopped off the cart and quickly grabbed the broken line. She kept an eye on the musicians as she tried to refasten the line at the bit, but the snap was busted and there was no way to put it back together. The musicians, well, they were deep into the place where music often takes people, and barely seemed to notice her. Moments later, though, the song ended abruptly, or so it sounded to Frankie, and then one of the boys, who had his head hung low over his cigar-box guitar, started singing something else.

Oh little girl, she got a boy's name

She workin' in the kitchen

Now ain't that a cryin' shame

She got the low-down workin' blues

And ole man Stannum he's to blame

Oh man, she got the low-down workin' blues

Frankie dropped the line and went over to the musicians to get a good look at the abercrombie who thought he knew so much.

“What you doing, Seaweed?” said the boy playing washtub bass. “We wasn't finished and that song is all wet.”

The boy on the blues harp blasted out a sharp chord and said, “Shoot, hold it right there. I write the songs, dig?”

“I'm just messin', Shorty,” said Seaweed. Then he grinned at Frankie. “What you doing out here by youself? Your daddy be knowin' you in this here part of town?”

“What was that song supposed to mean?” said Frankie.

“I asked you first,” he said.

Frankie sighed. This boy was too much. “I'm just taking my pony out to stretch her legs. It's not good to keep her cooped up in her shed all day, you know.” She tried to sound as though she did this all the time and that it was no big achievement, even though it certainly was. A Number Three trying to move up the ranks should never act like a Number Three, or that's all people will think of you.

“You best be going on home,” he said, standing up.

Frankie planted her feet. “It's a free country.”

Seaweed raised his eyebrows and nodded. Then he said under his breath, “You're right, it is. For some.”

“For your information, I am aiming to go on home,” said Frankie. “But a snap on one of the lines broke. And I can't go anywhere until I fix it.”

“Hey, are we playin' or what?” said the boy with the blues harp. He started blowing, sounding like a train whistle bearing down the tracks.

Seaweed nodded at him. “In a minute.” Then he stood and said to Frankie, “Let me have a look.”

“I don't need any help,” said Frankie. She made her way around Dixie and picked up the broken line. “Not from you or anybody else.” She wanted to make that point very clear.

“All right,” said Seaweed. “Then go on and fix the thing on you own and get on with youself.” He sat back down on his washtub. “We tryin' to practice over here.”

Frankie looked at the broken snap again. She tried to squeeze the metal ring closed, but it was no use. What she needed was some rope or wire. She checked the cart.

Emptier than a street beggar's tin cup.

Frankie shook her head. She could leave Dixie here and walk home. Or lead Dixie by the bit. Either way, with or without a pony, home was a long way to walk. A long, long way. And when she got there, oh, the trouble that would be waiting.

While she was trying to figure out what to do, Seaweed started picking at his guitar and the other boys were carving out another slow, gloomy tune. Frankie watched them sway their heads in time with the rhythm, the boy on the blues harp with his eyes closed, the boy with the bass making such a grimace, as if his appendix was having a spontaneous burst. Frankie's eyes were stuck on Seaweed's fingers. Or to be more exact, the strings on his cigar-box guitar.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I'm sorry to interrupt.”

“Aw, man,” said the bass player. “What is this?”

“Lord Almighty!” yelled the one on the blues harp.

“Now you want help, do you?” said Seaweed, grinning. “Come to you senses?”

Frankie scowled at him. “No. I don't need any help. I just need to borrow one of your guitar strings.”

“One of my guitar strings!” shouted Seaweed. “You crazy, girl.”

“I'll give it back,” she said. “Tomorrow, at the restaurant. I just need it to get home.”

“Now I know you crazy,” he said.

Frankie reached for his guitar. “You've got four others there. I'm only asking for one.”

“Only askin' for one?” said Seaweed, his mouth hanging open.

“You don't know nothin' about no music if you think four strings ain't no different than five,” said the boy on the blues harp. “Seaweed, are we practicing here or what?”

“Hold on a second, Shorty,” said Seaweed. “I got me an idea.” Then he looked at Frankie square in the eye. “Let's say I do give you a string to fix your horse. What you give me?”

“Your string back tomorrow, like I already told you,” she said.

“Naw,” he said. “I don't mean that. Let me think.” He rubbed his chin. “All right. Here it is. I let you borrow a string if you promise—no, swear to it—here and now that you will get your daddy to let us play at his place.”

“Play at his place?” asked Frankie.

“That right,” said Seaweed. “His place. You know, the restaurant. And I mean when it's open for business, in front of a mess of people. Me and my band.”

“
Your
band?” said the bass player.

Frankie looked from Seaweed to Dixie. The setting sun cast a light on Dixie's head in such a way that her eyes gave a sparkle. She flared her nostrils and nudged Frankie's arm with her nose. The pony liked it when the stakes were high.

“What you say?” asked Seaweed, sticking out his hand. “We got us a deal?”

Frankie shook his hand. “Fine.”

“There you go, boys,” he said, taking a bow, “I just got us a gig.” Then he laid the cigar-box guitar across his lap and began to remove one of the strings. It only took a few seconds before the string was free and he was handing it over.

Frankie brought it to the broken snap. Seaweed followed. “Make sure you ain't gonna break it,” he told her.

Frankie looped the string around the broken snap and tied it to the bit line. She tugged on it a few times to make sure it held, and as she did, a police car came to a stop beside them.

“Come on, let's go,” said Shorty, as he and the bass player scrambled to pick up their washtubs and took off down the alley.

“Oh brother.” Frankie shook her head, convinced that this was Mother's doing.

Officer McIntyre emerged from the police car and placed his hand on the billy club suspended from his leather belt. “What seems to be the problem here?”

“No problem here,” said Seaweed, keeping his eyes down.

“I wasn't talking to you, boy,” Officer McIntyre said. He eyeballed Frankie. “Miss, what are you doing there?”

“I'm sorry my mother troubled you, Officer,” said Frankie. “I
would've been home by now if this line hadn't broken. But I've fixed it now and that's where I'm headed.”

“Your mother?” asked Officer McIntyre.

Frankie nodded. “Mildred Baum. Didn't she call you?”

“I received no such call, miss,” he said. “Just on my routine patrol and spotted you here. This part of town is no place for a young girl like yourself.” He looked at Seaweed. “Unsavory people around here.” He stepped out of the way so that Frankie could climb into her seat on the cart.

Seaweed patted Dixie at her neck. “I better be gettin' on home, too. Ma be thinkin' I hopped a train to the Windy City by now.”

Officer McIntyre grabbed the cigar-box guitar from under Seaweed's arm. “Aren't you the same Negro I caught last week on Church Street pestering a shop owner to let you play and disturbing the peace?”

“No, sir,” said Seaweed. “Ain't me. Never been on Church Street.”

Officer McIntyre swung the guitar like a baseball bat, waiting for one right down the middle. Seaweed's eyes were in a panic as he watched the policeman handle his most prized possession, but he held his tongue. “Best be quiet,” his mother had always warned him. “The more you say, the deeper your grave. Anything more than
yes, sir
and
no, sir
be cause for trouble.”

“You wouldn't be lying to me, would you, boy?” said the policeman, taking his billy club from his belt and a step toward Seaweed.

“No, sir.”

“He helped me, Officer,” said Frankie, interrupting the officer's questions. “He works at my daddy's restaurant, and wasn't doing anything but trying to help me get on my way. Honest.”

Her heart was beating so loud in her ears she could barely hear Officer McIntyre ask, “Miss?”

“Baum,” she said. “Frankie Baum.”

“Baum?” said the officer. “Is your father Hermann Baum?”

Frankie nodded and then smiled, hoping that her father's name would lend credence to her words.

But the officer just narrowed his eyes. Finally, he tossed the guitar at Seaweed, who caught it by the neck and nestled it under his arm.

“I don't want to see you around here again,” he said to Seaweed.

“No, sir,” said Frankie and Seaweed at the same time.

As Officer McIntyre returned to his car, Seaweed picked up his washbasin and headed for the alley without looking back. Frankie flicked the reins and started Dixie in a trot. She tried to slow her racing heart and stole a glance at Seaweed as he disappeared between the buildings.

She wondered about many things on her journey home. Among them, what had almost happened? And, how on earth would she make good on her deal?