A Tiny Piece of Sky (8 page)

“Why is he so upset?” said Frankie.

“He ain't upset,” whispered Amy. “He just ain't got no heart.”

THE DAY CREPT ALONG
in the tiniest of increments. After the remark about Frankie's name and the period of silence that had followed, it didn't take too long for Seaweed to start up his tricks again. Mr. Washington tried several times to cut him down to size, but Seaweed had the sort of personality, it seemed, that could not be easily cut down or contained, at least not within the four white walls of a reasonably small kitchen.

Frankie concentrated on clearing the stack of boxes by the door. Finally, after every pot and pan was properly shelved, she gathered up the empty boxes to take outside. She pushed open the door, but could only open it partway, as the brick building next to the restaurant was so close, it hindered the door's full potential. The space between the buildings was wide enough that Frankie could squeeze through the door, but not with all of the boxes filling her arms. She looked back inside the kitchen. Everyone was tending to their own tasks. Everyone, that is, except for Seaweed. But as soon as Frankie noticed him watching, he turned his back and emptied the dirtied wash bucket into the deep porcelain sink.

Frankie let the boxes fall to her feet and then slipped through the door. She stepped out into a very narrow alleyway, if you could even call it that, because it was so thin, she could fit only if she kept
her arms by her side. Once outside, even as she was so confined, she found she could breathe. She looked up at the narrow strip of sky that lit the small space around her, and with stiff soldier arms followed the alley all the way to the street.

The alley emptied out at Potomac Street, and she stood for a minute trying to decide which direction would be the quickest route home. Before she could make up her mind, Leroy Price came up behind her and kicked the backs of her knees so that her legs buckled and she fell to the brick sidewalk. “Smell that?” said Leroy to Marty, who was standing a few feet behind him. Leroy got close to Frankie and sniffed her hair. “Stinks like sauerkraut.”

Frankie got to her feet and charged at Leroy, swinging. He put his hand on her forehead and kept her at such a distance that her arms couldn't connect. And he laughed. Oh brother, did he laugh.

Marty Price came forward then, just as casual as could be. “So, Frankie,” he said, “have you been swimming yet this summer?” He said this as if it were the most normal thing in the world to have a conversation with someone while she's in the act of trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to knock their big brother's head off. “Me and Leroy's been twice,” he went on, “and I can do a backflip off the side. Just learned how.”

Frankie was still swinging at Leroy and grunting like a trapped pig. “That's nice, Marty,” she managed to say.

“Think you might be going sometime soon?” he asked. “You can watch me.”

Finally, Frankie's flailing arms got tired and she quit fighting. “I don't think so,” she said, catching her breath and turning her head under Leroy's grip so she could eyeball him.

“How come?” said Marty.

She grabbed Leroy's wrist with both hands and tried to pry his hand loose. “Because I guess I have to be here, most days.”

Leroy maintained his hold. “What kind of a restaurant is this, anyway?” He reached down with his thumb and pushed against the tip of Frankie's nose. “What do Germans like to eat?”

A fire ignited inside Frankie. “What did you say?” she yelled.

Then Seaweed stepped out of the alley holding a wire brush. He cleared his throat and it sounded like a low warning growl of a dog. “Heard a lot of racket out here. Thought maybe one of the pigs from the butcher down the street done got loose. And here it was just you, Frankie.”

Frankie gritted her teeth at him.

Leroy let go of Frankie's head, finally. “What business is it of yours?” he said.

Seaweed looked right past Leroy and said to Frankie, “Your daddy come huntin' for you in the kitchen.”

Leroy kept his eyes on Seaweed, and while he did, Frankie kept hers on Leroy and thought of at least two clever things she wanted to say about him being so stupid, but since he wasn't paying attention, she decided instead to kick him in the kneecaps. As she brought her leg back, though, Seaweed warned, “Now, Frankie. I know you don't want to keep your daddy waiting.”

Frankie dropped her leg mid-kick and nearly lost her balance. Leroy looked right at her. “Yeah, Frankie,” he said, laughing. “Better do what you're told.”

Frankie was burnt up about the both of them: Leroy, for being . . . well, Leroy, and Seaweed, for treating her like a Number Three.
What she didn't need was another keeper. She made her way back to the alley and kept going past Seaweed without even putting eyes on him.

“See you, Frankie,” said Marty, before Leroy smacked him on the back of his head.

Frankie didn't reply, but marched stiff-armed down the alley back toward the kitchen. Only then did she notice the wooden, painted sign on the door:
colored
entrance
.

“There you are,” said Daddy, who, along with Mother and Elizabeth, was standing next to Mr. Stannum. Daddy smiled when he saw Frankie and held out his arm to fold her in, but she pretended not to notice and instead kept her eyes on the floor. The fire inside her was still burning. Daddy dropped his arm and gave Mr. Stannum a pat on the shoulder. “The kitchen is certainly shaping up. But are we on track to open on the fifth?”

Mr. Stannum swallowed. “Yes, Mr. Baum.” He glanced around at Mr. Washington, Amy, and Julie, and then his eyes narrowed on Seaweed, who had just come in from the alley. “Come hell or high water.” Then he looked at Frankie, and Mother and Elizabeth, and cleared his throat. “Pardon me.”

Mother gave a polite smile, but Frankie had other things on her mind. She didn't know where Leroy Price was getting his information, but she was not about to let his remark go unanswered. She took a step forward so that she was in front of Daddy's good eye and asked, “Are we making German food?”

WELL, OLE MR. STANNUM'S
cheeks flushed. Everybody else in the kitchen kept on about their business but leaned a keen ear in Frankie's direction. “German food,” said Daddy. “What makes you ask that?”

“Leroy Price said—” started Frankie, but Daddy cut her off.

“That reminds me,” he said. “The menus! Stay right here.” Daddy strode into the main dining room and, a few minutes later, came back carrying a stack of rectangular menus printed on heavy paper stock. He handed one to Mother first, then to Elizabeth and Mr. Stannum, and then Frankie.

“Oh, in color, too, Hermann,” said Mother, holding on to the menu tightly, as if she wanted to be sure it wasn't a dream and wouldn't suddenly dissolve into raindrops. She ran her finger over “Baum's Restaurant and Tavern” in black, regal-looking letters at the top. Below the name was an unusual scene: a line drawing of a white horse with a medieval soldier on his back, riding to war or to something else. He was holding a long trumpet to his mouth, a solid red flag hanging from its end. Behind him were a castle and two more soldiers—one with a smaller trumpet and the other carrying a cooked turkey on a serving platter. To the right, a young maiden holding a jug of wine, presumably, which was nearly half her size.
She was looking up, the young lady was, in the direction of the galloping horse, and right in that empty white space of the menu was this quotation printed in dark, scrolling letters: “An Eating Place of Wide Renown.”

“It's beautiful, Daddy,” said Elizabeth, predictably.

“What's it supposed to mean?” asked Frankie. “‘An eating place of wide renown'? And what's the horse for? And why are there soldiers?”

“Frances,” whispered Mother.

“What?”

“They aren't soldiers,” said Elizabeth. “For one thing, they would have guns if they were soldiers. They're musicians. You know, on horseback, traveling with the king.”

“What king?” said Frankie. “We don't have any kings.”

“Not a specific king,” explained Elizabeth, trying hard to show her smarts. “A king, in general. Any king. Right, Daddy?”

“Well, where is he, then?” asked Frankie. “In the castle? And is this restaurant supposed to be a castle, because”—she looked around the room and then shook her head—“it is
not
.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Frankie.”

Mother smiled at Daddy. “It does look like something out of a storybook.”

Daddy turned his head slightly so that his one good eye had full view of the drawings. Then he held the menu at arm's length as if he were judging a work of art. “I think it shows the magic of the restaurant. When people sit at a table to eat, I want them to have an experience here like no other the world over.”

Frankie opened the menu and looked over the food offerings. Under the heading
F
ruits
and
J
uices
:

L
a
rge
glass
of
C
hilled
T
omato
J
uice
 . . . 10
cents

E
ight
ounces
of
P
ure
O
range
J
uice
 . . . 15
cents

O
ne
-
half
S
eedless
G
r
apefruit
,
carefully
c
ut
 . . . 10
cents

S
elected
P
r
unes
in
heavy
home
-
c
ooked
syrup
 . . . 10
cents

“Blech, prunes,” said Frankie. Hopefully they weren't Grandma Engel's stewed prunes, which she force-fed to Frankie whenever she was constipated. There was nothing that smelled or tasted worse. Grandma ate them by the tablespoonful until her teeth and tongue were coated with the thick brown sauce. It was, in a word, disgusting. And why anyone would pay money for them, let alone ten cents, was beyond Frankie.

“Oh,” said Mother, smiling, “you've even put Mother's prunes on the menu. She'll be tickled.”

Heavens.

Then this:

L
arge
I
talian
P
urple
P
lums
 . . . 10
cents

F
ull
ripe
B
ananas
,
s
liced
in
milk
, 10
cents
 . . .
in
cream
, 15
cents

F
ancy
S
piced
C
rabapples
 . . . 10
c
ents

Frankie read further and saw an assortment of cereals, hotcakes, club breakfasts, and eggs and omelettes.

Under
E
ggs
and
O
mele
ttes
, this note:

W
ill
you
kindly
give
your
waitress
explicit
directions
as
to
how
you
like
y
our
eggs
—
we
know
you
have
a
preference
.

W
e
serve
two
E
ggs
—F
ried
, B
o
iled
, S
crambled
, P
oach
ed
,
or
S
hirred
—
for
20
ce
nts
. C
risp
B
acon
and
two
E
ggs
for
40
cents
.

C
ountry
C
ured
H
am
and
E
ggs
65
cents
or
,
if
yo
u
like
, S
wift
'
s
P
remi
um
or
A
rmour
'
s
S
tar
H
am
and
E
ggs
50
cents
. A
ll
orders
served
with
R
olls
or
B
read
and
B
utter
. T
o
ast
5
cents
.

Then a list of various omelettes made to order, all for 35 cents, except the plain for 25: ham, cheese, bacon, hamburger, tomato, Spanish, or onion. Then
T
oasts
and
S
a
lads
and
T
avern
S
pecials
, which included hot blue plates, cold platter combinations, cold meats—full orders, and seafood in season, ranging from 25 cents for one dozen fresh shrimp to 65 cents for the genuine calf's liver (with onions or bacon), potatoes, and cabbage slaw. Frankie was happy to see “Toasted Cheese Sandwich” under
F
amous
T
avern
S
andwic
hes
, which was her very favorite, but most of all she was relieved to see that there wasn't any German food to be found, except for German fried potatoes under the heading
A
la
C
arte
, whatever that meant. And considering that there were Italian plums, Spanish omelettes, and Gherkin dressing—whatever that was—Frankie didn't think one German thing on the menu made any difference. “So we're selling American food, then?” Frankie asked.

“Well of course, Frances,” said Mother. “What else would we be serving?”

“I told you, German food,” said Frankie. “That's what Leroy Price said, anyway.” She knew better than to take Leroy's word for anything, but she also knew that Daddy's parents were German, and
there was a lot of talk lately about the Germans—
those Germans
this and
those Germans
that!—and Daddy was always full of surprises.

Frankie thought she noticed Mother give a nervous glance in Daddy's direction, but if Mother did, Daddy didn't see it. He was still staring at the menus, paying attention to each word—from half fried milk-fed chicken to Philadelphia scrapple with syrup—as though he was adding up each printed letter on the pages, making sure all was accounted for. A missing letter, like a missing ingredient, you know, could really mess up a cake.

Then Daddy handed out menus to Julie, Mr. Washington, Amy, and Seaweed. He asked them, “What do you think?”

Julie answered right away that she had always wanted a horse. “A white one,” she said, tapping the menu, “just like this one.”

Amy, Mr. Washington, and Seaweed only nodded. But Daddy was full of encouragement. “Come on, now, don't be shy.”

Seaweed was the only one to take Daddy up on this invitation. “Well, Mr. Baum,” he said, clearing his throat, “I see what you trying to do here with those cats and their horns on the front. I mean, they ain't no Tommy Johnson or Blind Lemon Jefferson. But musicians are musicians, and the thing about musicians, you know, they be hungry a lot. Like for that turkey right there.” He licked his lips. “That look good.”

Frankie's stomach rumbled. It was getting close to suppertime. “With loads of gravy.”

“And a side of potatoes,” said Seaweed.

“And cooked carrots,” Frankie added, nodding.

“Naw,” said Seaweed. “Never could stomach carrots much.”

“I don't think Mr. Baum is interested,” said Mr. Stannum,
grabbing for the menu in Seaweed's hands. “And you all have jobs to do, as far as I know.”

Daddy stepped in between Mr. Stannum and Seaweed. “I'm very interested. I wouldn't have asked otherwise.”

Still, Seaweed, Mr. Washington, Julie, and Amy handed over their menus to Daddy and went back to work. Then Mr. Stannum leaned close to Daddy and said in a quiet voice, “Mr. Baum, can I have a word?” Daddy nodded and followed him a few steps until they were standing by the kitchen door.

Mr. Stannum towered over Hermann, but most people did, and Hermann wasn't the least bit uncomfortable. The same couldn't be said about Mr. Stannum, however. He had never been in such close proximity to Hermann before, and he couldn't help but stare at his glass eye.

The thing about that eye was that people felt as though Hermann were staring at them all the time. At least partially. And that's the sort of thing that made some people, well, anxious. They didn't know whether to stare back or look at their feet, and if they decided to stare back, which eye did they look at? It certainly was quite the predicament for some.

Hermann eventually got used to people feeling uneasy around him, and even learned to turn himself into somewhat of an attraction. Particularly for Frankie and Joan's friends, Hermann was happily obliged to entertain their curiosity about his glass eye by pretending to sneeze and then popping it into his hand. It was a perfectly gruesome trick. The first time he performed that trick in front of Ava and Martha, Martha turned the color of a pickled beet and then locked herself in the Baums' bathroom for five hours until the
fire department arrived and had to break down the door with an axe. After that, Mother told him he could never do that trick again, to which he mostly agreed but reserved the right for special occasions.

This occasion might've qualified.

Daddy could see that Mr. Stannum was uneasy and gave serious thought to having a sneeze for his benefit, though he knew Mother's nerves were already worn thin and one good eye pop could do her in.

Mr. Stannum continued staring at Daddy's good eye, then shifted back and forth from one to the other, until he finally settled his gaze on his own shoes. That's when he noticed the spittle on the toe.

“Mr. Stannum?” said Daddy.

“Right,” he said, keeping his head down while wondering if he had any shoe polish left in his cupboard at home, or if he needed to stop at Wexler's on the way. “The staff restroom,” he said finally. “There's only one.”

“That's right,” said Daddy. “Isn't it working properly?”

“Oh yes, it is in fine working order,” said Mr. Stannum.

“Then what seems to be the problem?”

“The problem,” he said, “is that there seems to be only one.” He stepped beside Daddy so Amy, Mr. Washington, and Seaweed were in plain view of Daddy's working eye. “Only one, for all of us.”

Daddy sighed and then nodded. “I see.”

“Now, the only toilets for whites you've got are in the dining room,” said Mr. Stannum, “but me and Julie can't be traipsing through the dining room when you've got customers to use those toilets. It wouldn't be right.”

“No,” Daddy agreed, “that wouldn't be right. But neither would
it be right for Amy, Leon, and Seaweed to do without facilities. I'm sure you're not suggesting they just go in the street, Mr. Stannum.”

Mr. Stannum adjusted the collar of his shirt, which was feeling a bit like a lonesome boa constrictor. “Of course not.”

“Then what
are
you suggesting?”