Isabelle and Little Orphan Frannie: The Isabelle Series, Book Three (7 page)

Isabelle's mother rested her chin in her hands and rolled her eyes. “It's a secret. That's what makes it so exciting. It's always something special.”

“Yeah, and Aunt Maude usually stays too,” Isabelle told Frannie. “As a matter of fact, she always stays although she pretends she won't. Aunt Maude's a real aunt, though. Not a phony one, like yours.”

“Who says Aunt Ruth's a phony?” Frannie demanded angrily.

“You said,” Isabelle replied. “You said she wants you to call her aunt, but she's not a real aunt. So I call that a phony.”

“You've got no business calling her a phony,” Frannie said, fists clenched. “You don't even know her. If I come on Sunday”—Frannie had calmed down some—“I'll wear my new frock. It's a real frock, all right. I look like a movie star in that frock. I look like somebody in a game show. That's what Aunt Ruth says.”

“What's a frock?” Isabelle asked.

Frannie's mouth dropped open and her eyes popped in astonishment.

“You don't know what a frock is?” Frannie said. “It's this really special dress; you only bring it out for dressy parties. My mother sent it to me from Detroit. Did I tell you my mother's boyfriend gave her a diamond?”

Isabelle and her mother shook their heads no, she hadn't told them.

“Well”—Frannie licked her lips—“it's about a karat, set in platinum with lots of little diamonds on the sides and all around. Now my mother says she can't do the dishes or anything, on account of the diamond. Her hands were made for diamonds, and a diamond's a big responsibility, you see.”

“Right you are,” Isabelle's mother agreed. “Now, girls, mind taking off? I'm very busy with this thing.”

“Come on, let's go,” Isabelle said, and they tiptoed outside.

“How come she calls it supper when it's a school day or something,” Frannie asked, “and when it's Sunday she calls it dinner? What's the dif?”

Isabelle spread her hands, fingers fanned wide.

“It's very simple,” she said. “Supper is when she cooks it, dinner's when he does.”

FIFTEEN

“Such a strange little girl I met outside just now,” Aunt Maude said, taking off her gloves. “When I admired her dress, she said, ‘This is not a dress, it's a frock,' and. when I told her I once had one very like hers, she ran away. Though mine, of course, had a little ruffle right here,” and Aunt Maude showed Isabelle where her ruffle had been. “And hers didn't. But they were very much alike, nevertheless.

“And she just raced off. I'm sure I don't know where she's gone to. Very odd, I must say.” Aunt Maude shook her head. “The sermon today was very short. I suspect the minister was off to play golf, as I saw he had on plaid trousers under his robe. Why not, on such a splendid day? What's the marvelous smell?”

“That must've been Frannie,” Isabelle said. “She's coming for Sunday dinner. Are you staying, Aunt Maude?” Isabelle asked, eyes wide and innocent. She knew perfectly well wild horses couldn't keep Aunt Maude from staying.

“Oh, not today, child. I must hurry home to watch the candidates debate on TV. I must say, they all seem too young, too shifty, always calling each other names,” Aunt Maude said. “Very ungentlemanly, if you ask me. It seems to me they set a very bad example for the young people of this country.”

“Hello, Maude,” said Isabelle's mother. “New hat? Very chic, I must say.”

“Do you really like it? I ordered it from the L. L. Bean catalogue,” Aunt Maude confided, beaming. “Some boys made noises at me when I came out of church, and when I asked them what they were doing, they said, ‘Imitating a duck.' Then they all quacked at me. Well, since this is a duck hunter's hat, I was thrilled. I wear it to the beach too. It keeps the sun out of my eyes. What
is
that divine smell?”

The doorbell rang and Isabelle raced to let Frannie in.

But it was Herbie, standing there, scowling down at the pad and pencil he was holding.

“I can't fight now, Herb,” Isabelle told him. “Frannie's coming for dinner. We're just about to eat.”

“I'm doing a survey,” Herbie announced, puffing out his chest. “For the
Bee
. What's your favorite cereal?”

“Chex,” Isabelle said. Actually she liked Cocoa Puffs best, but her mother refused to buy them.

“What's your favorite, pizza or Chinese?”

“Hey, I thought you were art editor of the
Bee
,” Isabelle said. “What's this got to do with art?”

“I'm a man of all jobs, Iz,” Herbie said ponderously. “I think I'm slated for the top job. They've got me in training.”

Behind him, Isabelle saw Frannie coming up the walk, taking tiny, mincing steps.

“I was unavoidably delayed,” Frannie said.

“Sheesh!” said Herbie. “Where'd you find
her
?” and he darted off, shouting, “Catch ya later, Iz!”

“This is my friend Frannie, Aunt Maude,” Isabelle said. “She's an …”

“Let me,” Frannie ordered, shoving Isabelle aside. “I'm a norphan, you see,” she told Aunt Maude who, upon hearing these words, put a little hand over her heart and drew down the corners of her mouth as if she might burst out crying. “My old daddy died and …” Frannie broke off and said, “What's that smell?”

“Turkey,” said Isabelle.

“Turkey!” cried Aunt Maude and Frannie in unison. Aunt Maude threw up her hands and cried, “Gorgeous!”

And Frannie said softly, “It's not even Thanksgiving or Christmas.”

Isabelle's father appeared, whipping off his apron and calling,
“À table!”

“That's French for ‘Soup's on,'” Isabelle explained as they all trooped into the dining room and stood gazing at the big bird.

“How many pounds, Dad?” Isabelle asked.

“Fifteen and a bit,” her father answered. “And my special stuffing will take your breath away. It's got oysters in it, among other things. Please be seated, ladies and gents. Maude, you here, and Frannie, here,” and he pulled out chairs for them.

“Oysters,” Frannie whispered, turning pale. “Inside him?” and she pointed at the turkey with her elbow. Philip grinned at her and said, ‘Yeah, they're swimming upstream too,” which made Frannie even paler.

“Oysters don't swim upstream,” Isabelle scoffed. “Don't pay any attention to him, Frannie. That's salmon who do that. I saw it on TV. My father's stuffing is the best.”

“Ahhh, now comes the moment of truth,” Isabelle's father said, brandishing his knife, preparing to dissect the turkey. Frannie's eyes were riveted on him as he began to carve. She watched, fascinated, as the slices fell away.

“As you can see,” Isabelle said proudly, “my father's an excellent carver.”

“Is he a doctor?” Frannie asked, elbows on table, and Isabelle's father stopped carving and a pleased look stole over his face.

“Funny you should ask, Frannie,” he said. “My mother always
thought
I would have made an excellent surgeon.”

And in her little, tinny voice which carried to the four corners of the room, Frannie said, “When my Aunt Ruth had her operation, she said the doctor carved her up something fierce. She has a scar from her belly button to her armpit, she says. So I just thought you might be a doctor.”

The telephone rang just then and they all jumped. Philip leaped to answer.

“You're at dinner, tell her, Philip,” Isabelle's father said. “Say you'll call back when we're finished.”

Frannie and Isabelle listened as Philip told the caller they were at dinner. It took him quite a while.

“Who was it?” Isabelle wanted to know and Philip looked at her and said, “Wrong number.” Frannie giggled and Aunt Maude said, “I'd like a bit of skin, if I may. Skin's my favorite,” which sent Philip into such spasms of suppressed laughter he was almost sent from the table.

Isabelle noticed that Frannie patted her mouth daintily after every bite and was impressed. Mouthful of mashed potatoes, pat, pat. Mouthful of turkey, pat, pat. Dab of cranberry sauce, pat, pat. Frannie left her stuffing alone, Isabelle noticed.

“Perfectly delicious,” sighed Aunt Maude contentedly. “I never tasted such turkey in my life.”

“After, let's go to your house,” Isabelle whispered as she and Frannie and Philip cleared the table.

Frannie scowled and said nothing. “I have to be very careful,” she said. “I don't want to spill anything on my frock.”

Isabelle went to the bathroom and spent some time jiggling the handle to make the toilet stop running. By the time she emerged, Frannie had gone.

“But I was going to go see where she lived,” Isabelle cried. “She said so. She said she'd show me,” although in fact, Frannie had not said anything of the kind.

“That's very bad manners, isn't that what you said?” Isabelle asked her mother. “To eat and run, you said, is bad manners—you told me, and that's what she did. She ate and ran.”

“She was very polite,” Isabelle's mother said. “She said good-bye and thank you for the delicious dinner.”

“So I suppose you said, ‘Come again, Frannie,' didn't you?” Isabelle said crossly.

“Of course. Why not?”

“How can I be friends with a person who won't ask me to her house? I ask you, how can I?” Isabelle wanted to know.

“I probably
would
have been a good surgeon, when you come right down to it,” Isabelle's father mused. “Imagine that child noticing my skillful carving. Clever little thing.”

And “Sheesh!” said Isabelle, standing on her head, trying to make herself feel better. But, for once, standing on her head didn't do any good. No good at all.

SIXTEEN

“I'm back,” the tinny voice said close to Isabelle's ear next day.

“Big deal,” Isabelle said. “I didn't notice you were gone. I thought you spent the night in the garage.” She was still mad Frannie had skinned out so fast yesterday.

“Why, hello Frannie,” said Isabelle's mother.

“She's going to teach me to read,” said Frannie, poking a thumb in Isabelle's direction.

“Is that so?” Isabelle's mother looked somewhat astonished.

“Yes, it's so. Isn't it?” Frannie asked Isabelle, who decided to play her cards close to her vest and give nothing away.

“How come you changed your mind?” she said. “I don't know if I can now. I'm very busy. I have to write a story for a magazine.”

“What about?” Frannie wanted to know.

“Yes, what about?” echoed Isabelle's mother, plopping down in the nearest chair as if she planned a lengthy stay.

Isabelle shrugged, not knowing the answer to this question, among many others.

“My life,” she said at last. “My life as a child. I plan to tell about my family and the influence they had on me. I plan to write about my school and my teacher and my friends and my enemies. I plan to show all sides of the picture.”

Philip charged in, looking for his newspaper delivery bag.

“I bet you took it,” he accused Isabelle. “I left it hanging right there and now it's gone. Either you or the weirdo ripped it off. That's pretty sleazy, if you ask me.”

“Look in the downstairs closet, Philip. I saw it there yesterday,” said his mother.

They sat listening to Philip look for his bag. “I think that's wonderful, Frannie, that you're learning to read. And also wonderful, Isabelle, that you're helping Frannie,” Isabelle's mother said.

Frannie put out one finger and caressed a spotted banana lying in a dish.

“That's a very nice banana,” Frannie said.

“Help yourself,” Isabelle's mother said, “before it goes over the hill. Plenty more where that came from.”

Frannie stripped away the banana skin with care.

“It's just the way I like it,” she said, holding the banana away from herself, admiring its contours. “I love the smell of bananas.”

“I also plan to write a chapter about my brother,” Isabelle said.

Philip returned, newspaper bag hanging limply from his shoulder.

“So you found it, did you?” said his mother.

“Well, it was hidden under a bunch of garbage. Somebody knocked it on the floor and it got covered up by all this garbage.” Philip's face was red, whether from exertion or embarrassment it was hard to say. “Today's collection day. I gotta get going.”

“Actually,” Isabelle spoke dreamily, contemplating the ceiling, “actually I plan to write two chapters about my brother. About how when he's on the telephone talking to girls, he's all sweetsie-pie, and when he's in charge at night when my mother and father go out, he's a monster.”

“What's this? What's she talking about?” Philip demanded to know.

“Isabelle, if you and Frannie want to be private, better go up and shut your door. Philip, somebody called Sandra called, said she'd call you later.”

“Ooooohhh,” Philip groaned. “Sandra's having a BYOR party Friday night. That's probably what she wants, to ask me to it.”

“BYOR?”

“Yeah. Bring Your Own Record party. You think Dad will let me borrow some of his golden oldies?”

“Probably not. You know how he is about those records of his.”

“Yeah,” said Philip dryly. “It's like he likes 'em better'n he likes us.”

“Oh, I wouldn't go that far,” Isabelle's mother said without conviction.

“Follow me,” Isabelle ordered. “If we're gonna do this, we better get going.”

She dragged Frannie off to her room. “Sit there,” she pointed to a spot, and, to her great surprise, Frannie sat.

“First, the alphabet.” She went to the blackboard and wrote a big “A.” Here's ‘A'. We have ‘B'. “And she wrote a big “B.”