The Loud Silence of Francine Green (12 page)

"That's one line, Francine. I have to prepare more than one line."

"But—"

"No. Nothing about lepers. What else you got?"

"I read a play about George Washington in the—"

"Will you be serious? I need something romantic or dramatic."

"How about Beth's death scene from
Little Women?
It's dramatic."

"I never read it."

"Honestly, Dolores, you might as well be illiterate. I know you saw the movie. Remember? Elizabeth Taylor and Margaret O'Brien and Peter Lawford?" We both sighed, thinking of Peter Lawford.

"Well, maybe if I could play the Elizabeth Taylor part," Dolores said, fluffing her hair.

"Elizabeth Taylor wasn't in that scene. You should be Beth. It could go something like this."

I instructed Dolores to lie down on her bed and put a hairbrush in her hands like a flower. "'Oh sorrow,' I say. I'm Jo. 'Oh sorrow, our blessed saintly Beth is leaving us. She is so kind and good and always tried to do right. What will we do without her?' And Jo looks out the window where spring is approaching in their little garden, kind of sniffles a little, and says, 'The birds and the flowers have come to say goodbye to our Beth and I must be brave. I love you, my Beth. Sleep well.' Now, Dolores, you cough sort of delicately and breathe a big breath like a sigh and die."

"Francine, Jo has all the lines."

"Well, then, you could be Jo."

Dolores shook her head. "I'm not going to play some tomboy with a man's name."

"I'm trying to help you, Dolores, but you just won't be helped. Why don't you read some lines from the script of
Oklahoma!?
"

"Boring. Everyone will be doing that. I wanted to do something more interesting, some part that has lines and where I don't have to be called Jo. Can't you find anything good?"

I thought Dolores shouldn't be so snippy to someone she had asked for a favor. I had half a mind to tell her to find something herself. But this challenge was right up my alley. I knew 1 could come up with the perfect romantic and dramatic scene, even if I had to write it myself.

At school the next day, Sister had a surprise for us. "This Friday," she said, "there will be a prayer meeting at Gilmore Field sponsored by Mary's Maidens. Mrs. Thomas Murray, one of the organizers of the event, will be here today to tell us about Mary's Maidens, and I would like to make a bargain with you. If you behave, all of you," she said, looking straight at Sophie, "behave, and do not shame me in front of Mrs. Murray, we will attend the prayer meeting."

We all cheered, in a subdued, Catholic-school sort of way. Getting out of the Sin-Free Institute for Truly Feminine People was a rare treat.

Mrs. Thomas Murray came in after lunch. She was old, but in a strong sort of way, with kind blue eyes and silver hair piled high on her head. She was dressed all in blue, as befitted a Mary's Maiden, I thought, and spoke in a soft voice that made you want to listen. If I had to get old someday, I thought I'd like to get old like that.

We all sat quietly, hands folded on our desks, as she began to speak. "We, Mary's Maidens, are women of all ages who seek to grow in holiness through prayer and service to others. We try to listen to God and His Holy Mother in the quiet of our hearts and do what they bid us, whether it be collecting and distributing food and clothing to the poor or sponsoring prayer meetings for the intentions of His holy
church." She sounded a little like the Blessed Martin de Porres Sophie had spoken about at the speech contest. I was sure that Sophie would want to join right away.

"On Friday we will gather together with girls from Catholic schools throughout the Los Angeles area to ask God's Holy Mother to inspire our hearts to do as God commands, without pride or desire for acclaim, but humbly, as the early Christians did, brother and sister caring for one another." Her face shone with faith and commitment. Sister beamed at her. "Will you come? Will you join your prayers to ours?"

The Perfect and Admirable Mary Agnes Malone, of course, weasely Weslia, Florence, and some others stood and said, "We will, we will," but in the seat in front of me, Sophie stiffened. I could tell from her back that she was going to say something, something disruptive, and we would not be going to the prayer meeting.

She started to stand, but I pulled on her sweater. "No, Sophie, don't. Please don't."

Mrs. Murray said, "Do you young ladies have a question?" I knew when I was beaten. I let go of Sophie and she stood up. The other girls groaned.

"Mrs. Murray, from what Sister says, the early Christians were very much like communists, living and working together, holding all their goods in common, and distributing them to each according to his need. Do you mean we should pray to be communists?"

Mrs. Murray frowned. "My dear child, you—"

Sophie wasn't finished. "The way Sister described Jesus and his apostles, I think they were communists, too, working together for the benefit of all, sharing their food and possessions, no man seeking to be greater or richer than another. Sister said they—"

Mrs. Murray turned toward Sister, her blue eyes sad and puzzled and horrified at the same time. "Sister, just what is it you are teaching these children?"

I stopped listening. It was over. We would not be going anywhere. I looked at Sister. She had tears in her eyes. Yes, Sister Basil the Rotten, with actual tears in her eyes. Who would have thought it?

Sister was so distressed that she neglected to make Sophie stay after school. Sophie and I left together, but I walked quickly ahead of her to the bus stop. "Francine, wait," she called, but I wouldn't. I sat in the back of the bus, far from our regular seats, but she followed me and sat down.

I looked at her. "Sophie, why? Why did you spoil it for everybody?"

"Oh, she was such a goody-goody, I just had to ruffle her up a bit. What's the problem? Did you really want to go to this prayer thing?"

"Actually, Mary's Maidens sounds kind of interesting. They do good work, and besides, we would have gotten out of school for a day. But that's not the point. Other people wanted to go and you ruined it."

"I have the right to speak up, to say what I want. Free speech—"

"I've heard all that before, Sophie Bowman. Your idea of
free speech is 'act like a two-year-old and make trouble.' I don't think that's what the Constitution means by free speech. Did you ever think about keeping your mouth shut sometimes?" I surprised myself, having the nerve to say that to Sophie, but just then I didn't care if I ever saw her and her big mouth again. I turned away and looked out the window.

We got off the bus in silence and walked toward home. Finally Sophie said, "I'm sorry, Francine, sorry I spoiled things for you. I guess I didn't have to tell her my communist apostle theory just then."

I could tell Sophie didn't understand, but I knew I would forgive her anyway.

The house was perfectly quiet
and still smelled of our dinner meatloaf. My mother and father had gone to the movies to see Bette Davis in
All About Eve,
but I wasn't allowed to go with them because of Artie.

"Why can't Dolores be in charge of Artie?" I'd asked. "He's sleeping and won't be any trouble."

"Dolores has homework," my mother said.

"So do I."

"Well, then, that's another reason you can't go to the movies." She straightened her hat and pulled on her white gloves. "Dolores needs to concentrate and study very hard or she'll be in real danger of being a junior again next year. Let her work, and you take care of Artie and the dishes." She kissed me on the cheek, took my father's arm, and left.

I rubbed at the sweet, sticky mark her lipstick left on my cheek. Why did I have to do everything? I thought as I dried the dinner plates. And the "everything" was so boring. I
wished something exciting would happen to me, like being asked to star in a movie with Montgomery Clift, or the Virgin Mary appearing and telling me holy secrets, or God calling me to lead soldiers to save France like Joan of—

I threw the dish towel into the air. Of course. Joan of Arc! It was a brilliant idea. It was dramatic and romantic, and the nuns would love it. Dolores could audition with a scene about Joan of Arc. All I had to do was write it.

The next day after dinner, I found Dolores at her dressing table, pinning to the mirror frame what was either a dried corsage of yellow roses or a cabbage. "I have just the audition scene for you, Dolores. Joan of Arc."

"Remind me who she is," she said.

"Dolores, you remember every shade of nail polish Revlon ever made and you can't remember who Joan of Arc is?"

"If you're going to be snotty, you can leave."

"Okay, okay. Just listen. Picture this. England has invaded France, and Charles, the rightful king of France, sits useless in a palace in Paris. One day Joan, a French peasant girl of fourteen, is laboring in her father's fields. Labor, Dolores. You're Joan."

Dolores stood and sort of waved her arms around.

"You look like you're dusting the dining room," I said. "Labor, Dolores! Dig or plow or something." She waved her arms around a bit more. "Okay, Joan is laboring in the field when a brilliant figure with wings and a flaming sword" (I brandished the toilet plunger I'd brought from the bathroom) "appears to her. I'll be Saint Michael and say 'Joan,
you are Lo lead a mighty army and save France from the dreadful English.' Now, Dolores, you read this."

Dolores put on her glasses, took the script, and read, '"Why me, a peasant girl who can neither ride nor fight? Nor read nor write nor—"'

I took the script back. '"That matters not. I am Saint Michael, but it is God who commands you.' Now Saint Michael disappears, replaced by a beautiful girl with long golden hair with her foot on the head of a dragon. 'I am Saint Margaret, and I am here to tell you that Saint Michael is correct. God has chosen you to save France.' You read here, Dolores."

Dolores cleared her throat and said, '"I am but a weak woman, and I am a fright and—"'

"Not a fright, Dolores. Affrighted."

"What the heck does that mean?"

"It means frightened, scared."

"Then why can't I say that?"

"Affrighted is so much more poetic. But okay, say frightened."

Dolores cleared her throat again, and her voice rang out. '"I am but a weak woman, and I am frightened—"'

"Come on, Dolores, you've got to sound frightened. Like this." I hunched my shoulders and whispered, 'I am but a weak woman, and I am frightened and much too cowardly to lead an army' And Saint Margaret says, 'Oh Joan, my dear, I too was but a weak woman, but when threatened with death for being a Christian, I found the strength to resist, even when swallowed by a dragon, which I caused to burst asunder and—'"

"Francine," said Dolores, pulling on my arm, "the saints have all the lines."

"No, wait." I turned the page. "Now you read this, where Joan says, 'What is it God commands me to do?' And Saint Margaret answers, 'Go to Charles in Paris and tell him that it is God's will that you put on armor and raise a mighty army to drive the English out of France, and crown him king.' Joan paces around like this for a while" (I paced and wrung my hands) "for she is sore afraid and reluctant to ride a horse and lead a bunch of strangers to battle, but gradually she can feel her sense of duty outweigh her fears. And here, Dolores, you'd gradually stand straighter and taller, and then say—"

I looked for Dolores, but she wasn't there. "Dolores?"

"Hi, Wally it's Dolores," she said into the telephone in the hall. "Hold on a minute." She called to me, "Never mind, Francine. I'm going to read a scene from
Oklahoma!
"

She did, and she was cast as Third Farmer's Wife. No lines, but it was a part, and she got her name in the program.

I put the script for Joan of Arc under the half slips in my underwear drawer. I might need it someday if I were to audition for something. After all, acting might run in the family.

After days and days of rain,
Monday dawned sunny and mild. "I can't bear the thought of going to school on a day like this," said Sophie as we bounced along in the bus, past liquor stores and palm trees and little stucco houses in candy colors, motor courts and used-car lots and big gray buildings full of dentists. "Why don't we just stay on the bus until it gets somewhere interesting, somewhere we could have an adventure?"

"Yes, someplace like Chicago," I said. "Or New York. Or Hoboken."

"What's Hoboken?" she asked.

"A city in New Jersey. That's where Frankie Sinatra's from. He's swoony." I thought a minute. "Wouldn't it be neat if this bus could fly? We could be in Hoboken like that," I said, snapping my fingers. "Or in Europe. Spain, maybe, or Italy."

"Or Paris," Sophie said, "where we'll smoke skinny black cigarettes and write dark, tragic poems."

I took a deep drag on my #2 pencil. "We'll be pursued by handsome French painters, be madcap romantics, and have high jinks and tomfoolery. Hey," I said, knocking my knee against hers, "on Saturday let's go to Hollywood. We could have high jinks there. And maybe see movie stars."

"Let's go
today,
Francine. Look," she said, pointing to a billboard out the window. "It was meant to be."

The comedy team of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, proclaimed the billboard, onstage, in person, before the movie at the Egyptian Theater. In Hollywood. Today.

"Dean Martin is on the cover of the new
Look
magazine," Sophie said. "He's pretty dreamy. Let's go see him."

Me, I definitely preferred Jerry Lewis, with his rubber legs and funny faces. "Hey, lay-deee," he'd say and I'd laugh until I snorted out my nose.

"Why don't we just stay on the bus, skip school, and see Martin and Lewis?" Sophie asked me.

"Okay."

She stared at me. "You mean it?"

"Sure. Let's just forget about school and fool around in Hollywood. Maybe we could skip school tomorrow, too, and go to Mexico or San Francisco. In fact, we could skip school forever and just travel the world having adventures."