The Loud Silence of Francine Green (20 page)

My mother and father were at the kitchen table, talking quickly in low voices.

"What's up?"I asked, sitting next to my mother.

"Luba and Nikolai Petrov have sold their store," my mother said. "They're going to live with their daughter in Mexico."

"How come? Because Mr. Petrov is so sick?"

"Someone broke into the store and poured red paint over everything. It just broke their hearts. We should go over there to see if we can help—"

"I told you, stay out of it, Lorraine," my father said.

"I know you're worried, Fred," she said, patting his hand, "but shouldn't we do
something?
"

My father looked down at the table.

I went and sat in the yard, next to the hole that probably would never be a bomb shelter. My father didn't talk about it anymore. Artie'd laid a blanket over the hole and was using it for a fort. And my mother had planted her tomatoes elsewhere.

What would the Petrovs do in Mexico? Did they have baseball there? And cherry Popsicles? My eyes stung and watered, and I didn't know if it was from sadness or smog.

That night I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about poor Mr. and Mrs. Petrov and the thirsty roses in the Bowmans' yard. What could I do? Who could help?

Who was the most powerful man in the world? The pope, of course. I would telephone the pope. Probably they wouldn't let me talk to him, but I could leave a message with his secretary or something.

I crept downstairs, rehearsing what I wanted to say:

"Holy Father, the world seems all messed up to me. What we learn in religion class is not the way things really are. Neighbors accuse other neighbors of being communist spies. Perfectly nice people have to run away and hide because they came here from Russia. They came for freedom and they got trouble. A nice old man is dead because he
wouldn't tell on his friends. My little brother is afraid of the bomb, and he isn't the only one. I am supposed to obey my elders, but they are the ones who invented the bomb in the first place. Girls in saddle shoes carry
Kill a Commie for Christ
signs. Thou shalt not kill,' God said, but is anyone listening? Can you maybe sort this out before we are all dead?"

Of course the Vatican phone number was not in the Los Angeles telephone book, so I called the operator.

"I'd like to be connected to Pope Pius XII in the Vatican in Rome, Italy, please," I said.

"Who is this? Some wise-guy teenager?" the operator asked me. She cracked her gum a few times. "I know you juvenile delinquents. Next you'll be calling stores and telling them if they have pop in a bottle, to please let him out. Wise guys."

She hung up.

It was a stupid idea anyway. I never would have had the nerve to call. What if the pope had answered?

I stopped by Sophie's house
on my way to school the next day. No one was there. I found a hose around back and watered the roses.

School passed in its dreary, Sophie-less way. I called her number every day but got no answer. I was surprised how much I missed her. When your thumb has a bandage on it and you can't pick up anything and nothing feels right, that's how it was with Sophie gone. Nothing felt right.

We practiced marching for graduation. There was a gap in the line where Sophie should have been, like a missing tooth in a big grin, until Sister, with a smile, rearranged us.

One afternoon I stopped by the library at lunchtime, looking for Sister Pete. "Sister," I said, "may I talk to you?"

She put down her book. "Of course you may, Francine."

"Since Sophie's father lost his job, I've been thinking a lot about communists. People keep telling me that communists in Russia and China want to use A-bombs and H-bombs to
destroy us and our immortal souls. I don't know exactly what to think. Is it true that communists are evil people who want to kill us, or are they just people who believe different things? And how do we know if someone is a communist? I mean, the bad kind of communist?" I knew now how Sophie felt, bedeviled by questions that pushed and shoved to get out. "You know, people say, 'He is a communist and therefore an evil and destructive person.' Or 'He is not a communist and therefore not an evil and destructive person." But no one says, 'He is a communist but that doesn't mean he is an evil and destructive person.' And what if that's the truth? Oh, not awful people like Stalin in Russia, but ordinary communists. And is it right to report your neighbor for maybe being a communist if it will make him lose his job or something? And what if-—"

"Whoa, Francine. Sit down." I sat. "I know we live in frightening times, with so many things to be scared of and so little certainty as to right and wrong. Monsignor Sheen says that although communism is evil, we need not fear it as much as we should fear being Godless. So I let others fight the political battles while I struggle to keep God in my heart, follow the teachings of Mother Church, and pray for the conversion of those who do not know or have forgotten God."

I leaned forward in the chair. "You mean you just ignore what is happening in the real world?"

Sister Pete smiled. "God is in the real world, Francine. I have chosen God."

"Yes, Sister." I stood up to leave, disappointed. This wasn't any help. But I sat right down again. Something else
was bothering me. "Sister, I can't find Sophie and I have to see her. I feel so awfully guilty." Sister raised her eyebrows. "I let her down. When the other girls teased her in Red Rover, I didn't do anything. Or when they called her names. And the other day, when they wanted to march to her house with horrible signs, I still did nothing. Sophie will never forgive me."

"Saint Peter denied Our Lord three times and still was forgiven, Francine. I'm sure Sophie understands."

Maybe, I thought, but I wasn't sure I did. "Sophie means a lot to me, Sister. I know she acts up and doesn't always use good judgment, but she helps me think about things. She's my best friend, and I didn't do anything to defend her."

"Perhaps you will still get a chance. Just be sure that what you do is right and honest and pleasing to God."

"But how will I know that?"

"The Church gives you guidelines, Francine. And you can pray to know God's will."

Some first or second graders came in to use the library then, and our talk was over. I left feeling frustrated and confused. My questions had led not to answers but only to more questions. I wished I believed in fortunetellers. And could afford one.

When I got home, I looked through the day's mail. There was a large envelope with a Hollywood postmark. My response from Monty! Finally, after I had forgotten all about it! At last, someone with answers! I tore open the envelope.

A photo fell out, signed
Yours truly, Montgomery Clift.
That was it. No letter, no note, no word. Probably Monty
had never even seen my letter, just paid someone to open his fan mail and send out photos and keep people from bothering him.
Yours truly, Montgomery Clift.

I tore the picture into a hundred pieces. I felt like the whole world had let me down. There was no one to say, "Everything will be all right, Francine. Let's talk about it together and figure it out." I'd really thought Monty would be the one to help me. In movies the actors always knew—

And where did I think actors got the words to say? Of
course
actors didn't make up their own words. Someone—someone like Mr. Bowman—wrote the words, and actors just said them. Movie stars weren't magical beings but ordinary people like me. Only more glamorous. And richer.

I didn't want to be an actress, I realized, and pretend to be other people, and read someone else's words. I just wanted to be me, as soon as I figured out who that was.

The phone rang. It was Sophie at last. I was so relieved and excited that the words just tumbled out of me. "How are you, Soph? Where have you been? I watered your roses. Are they okay? Is your father—"

"I can't talk, Francine, but I wanted to say goodbye."

"Goodbye?
Goodbye?
Where are you? What's happening?"

"Just listen, Francine. I can't tell you anything. I'm not even supposed to be talking to you now, but I couldn't leave without saying goodbye. I mean, you were my best friend, after all."

"What do you mean 'were'? Sophie, what's going on?"

"I have to go now. Thank you for being my friend. I learned a lot from you and I'll miss you." I could hear tears
in her voice. "Now I won't have anyone to tell me about movie stars and help me use my imagination and teach me to dance."

"Oh, Sophie, I've been so worried about you and missed you so much. I need to see you. Can I come over and—" I heard a click. "Sophie, wait! Sophie!" I shouted. "We'll figure something out. You can't go. I can't—" But there was only silence on the other end.

"Goodbye?...
Were
my best friend?" I threw down the receiver and ran out the door.

The Bowmans' car was not there, and a moving van was parked in front of the house.

The door was wide open. I went inside. It was all so familiar, all the books and pictures and the big old radio. Everything was still there, except for the photograph of Mrs. Bowman. But where were Sophie and Mr. Bowman?

"Are the Bowmans here?" I asked a beefy young mover with
Tim
embroidered on his pocket.

"Nope. Nobody's here. We just got instructions to come and pack things up and put them in storage."

"Do you know where they are?"

"Nope," Tim said.

Another mover passed by, carrying Mr. Bowman's big leather chair on his back. He shook his head. "Nope," Tim said again.

I raced from the house, my eyes streaming and my nose running. I walked and walked, crying and thinking. Where had they gone? And why? Why couldn't Sophie tell me anything?

Pictures of Sophie filled my mind as I walked: Sophie standing in the wastebasket, Sophie onstage at the speech contest, Sophie waggling the sign behind her back as she was dragged to the principal's office, Sophie smoothing her hair and tucking a lock of it behind her ear. I realized it was a soft and gentle gesture, like something a mother would do for you if you were sad or afraid. If you had a mother.

I stood on the street corner and cried. Sophie was gone. I couldn't believe it. She might still call or write me, but it wouldn't be the same as being best friends. Maybe I'd never see her again, or maybe I'd be reading a newspaper one day, and there would be a story by a crusading reporter who talked about freedom of speech and fighting for justice, and it would be Sophie. I cried even harder.

Finally I rubbed the tears off my face and started home. Was there something I could do? Some way I could fix this and bring Sophie home? But I was just one thirteen-year-old girl in Los Angeles, one scared thirteen-year-old girl. What could I do? What did it matter?

And I realized that it
did
matter. I mattered. I wanted it to matter that I'd been here in the world.

"Isn't it time you spoke up and took sides?" Sophie had asked me once. And now the words kept repeating in my head as I walked. Isn't it time? Isn't it time? Suddenly I couldn't stand it any longer, all the unfairness, the injustice, the fear, the bullying and the blaming. Sophie, Mr. Bowman, Artie and Chester Bear, poor Jacob Mandelbaum, the Petrovs, the droopy Patsy who would suffer all next year. I was so angry. It was wrong, all wrong!

I couldn't solve everything, but I could do something. What if I stood up to Sister Basil the Great? What if I fought this one little fight?

My footsteps slowed. Go home, I told myself. You could get into trouble. Despite the cautionary voice in my head, I turned and headed for school. I knew what I had to do.

I had no money for the bus, and it was a long walk. I heard Sister Pete saying, "Be sure what you do is right and honest and pleasing to God."

I could only do the best I could. "Dear God," I thought, "I sure hope this is okay with you."

The school looked different in the gathering darkness, creepy even, with the smoke rising from behind the building that meant Mr. Sweeney was burning trash in the big incinerator.

The lights were on in the principal's office. Sister Basil.

My stomach was all knotted up, but I forced my feet to move. I walked up to the big double doors and pushed them open, hard. They slammed back against the wall, the noise echoing in the empty hallway.

I walked quickly to Sister Basil's classroom. The familiar smell of chalk dust, pencil shavings, and old tuna sandwiches made my stomach turn. I picked up the wastebasket with sweaty hands.

I waited until Mr. Sweeney left the yard and then went out the back door. I dropped the wastebasket on the ground and jumped on it over and over, kicked it, banged it against the building again and again, until it lay crumpled and ruined on the ground. I was crying so hard that I could
hardly see, but finally I got the door of the incinerator open and threw the wastebasket in. I watched the fire blaze for a minute, wiped my hands on my skirt, and turned back to the building.

I crept through the dark hall again and out the front door. I didn't know how God would feel about what I'd done, but I was satisfied. I had made a stand against Sister Basil.

I started for home, trotting at first and then slowing to a walk. No, I told myself, don't stop. Just go home. But Sister Pete's words echoed in my head: right and honest, honest, honest. "Oh crumb," I said, and turned back toward the school.

As I walked, I rehearsed. "Sister Basil the Great," I'd say, "1 just threw your damn palm trees over the side." I shook my head. Sister would likely toss me out the window for saying
damn
before I really got started. I'd say it right out. "Sister, I just threw your wastebasket into the fire." I could imagine Sister's mouth dropping open and her face growing red.

What did I truly want to say to her? "Sister, it seems to me the world is full of bullies. Russia and America are bullying each other. Communists like Stalin bully people, and so does the FBI. Sophie and Mr. Bowman, Artie and Jacob Mandelbaum and the Petrovs, Betty Bailey and Patsy and all sorts of other people whose names I don't know, suffer because of bullies. I myself have been bullied into silence, but I just can't be quiet anymore. It's not right when people or groups or countries are bullies, and I think it has to stop.
I can't do anything about Russia or the FBI, but I can stand up to you. Sister Basil the Great, I think you are a bully. And I think you should stop it." That's what I would say.