The Rising Star of Rusty Nail, Page 3

  Franny began to play. Today, instead of being amused about getting away with the old Bach ploy, she was annoyed. How was she ever going to get good enough to play on stage with such an old fool of a teacher? Once in a while, she glanced resentfully over at Mrs. Staudt. Halfway through the music piece, Franny noticed with astonishment that her teacher appeared to be nodding off to sleep, her smoldering cigarette still dangling from her mouth. Franny added a few wrong notes here and there to see if the teacher would notice, but Mrs. Staudt showed no signs of life.

  At the end of the piece, Franny played as loud as she could without hurting herself, thundering to a deafening finale. Mrs. Staudt rewarded her student with a grunty little snore.

  Franny stared at her teacher in disbelief. After a minute, she slammed down the heavy keyboard lid with a loud bang.

  Mrs. Staudt shot up in her seat as though someone had stuck her with a red-hot branding iron. Her cigarette fell in her lap, and she slapped at the burning ashes. Then she smacked her lips several times and said groggily: “Very good, girlie. You’ve been practicing.”

  Franny could hardly believe her own ears.

  “Why don’t you run through it again, so I can watch your finger work,” suggested Mrs. Staudt, looking ready for another little nap.

  Suddenly the door to the music room swung open. Franny felt a surge of glee when she heard the labored breathing coming from the hallway. Then Mrs. Staudt’s father staggered in, looking panicked and disheveled. He wore a ratty old bathrobe and fluffy pink slippers with felt bunny ears sticking out of them.

  “Who got shot?” he wheezed, leaning on his cane. “I heard a shot! Who got the gun out? The Commies are comin’, ain’t they? I tole ya and tole ya, but y’never listen t’ me!”

  “Da-a-ad!” Mrs. Staudt shouted. “It was just the keyboard lid on the piano. Get back up those stairs!” She lurched out of her chair, which emitted a grateful groan.

  Then the old man fixed his beady old eyes on Franny and sharply drew in his breath.

  “Well, as I live and breathe,” he gasped, staring at Franny as though she was his long-lost child. He tottered toward her urgently and exclaimed: “Mr. President— you’re here just in the nick of time. Things’re real bad here in Rusty Nail, Mr. President—oh, you betcha! All the hogs got the fever!”

  That was as much as he managed to get out before Mrs. Staudt turned him around and marched him to the door.

  “Upstairs—now!” she yelled as she shoveled him along. One of his bunny slippers fell off and lay forlornly on the floor.

  Her father called desperately over his shoulder to Franny: “We need more farm subsidies, Mr. President!” and then he disappeared through the door.

  Franny sat there on the piano bench and scowled. She was sure that Tchaikovsky or Nancy or even that dumb nine-year-old girl at the White House never had to tolerate such indignities at a piano lesson.

  A few minutes later, Mrs. Staudt plodded back into the room. She didn’t even mention the incident but just threw herself down into her chair and lit another cigarette.

  “Now then, where were we?” she asked pleasantly, ashes falling on her large bosom.

  Franny played the Bach piece for her teacher three more times and trudged home, heavyhearted.

  Mayor Reverend Jerry was in a pickle. He sat in a fuchsia-colored vinyl chair at the local beauty salon, chomping on the damp end of an unlit cigar and thinking hard. All of the men in Rusty Nail had to go to the Smitty Beauty Station since the town barbershop had closed unexpectedly three years earlier. The owner of the barbershop, Mr. Rudolph Buck, had gone to Las Vegas for a vacation, fallen in love with a showgirl named Luella, and simply never come back.

  The mayor, also the town’s only minister, had just strolled into the Smitty salon for a haircut. Since the owner, Miss Norma Smitty, had already gone home for the night, the only person left to tend to him was the slothful salon assistant, Melba. The mayor’s heart sank since Melba was a terrible beautician who could do only two things: provide a permanent wave and cut a bowl haircut. In the latter procedure, Melba would literally slap a plastic bowl over the customer’s head and cut around the edges of it, leaving a perfectly round, mushroom-like cap on top of the customer’s head.

  Under normal circumstances, Mayor Reverend Jerry would have fretted over the unsavory options—but today he had bigger problems.

  “All right, Melba,” he said. “I need you to neaten up my appearance. It’s gonna be a busy week, and I ain’t gonna have time for any grooming. So let’s get it right the first time.”

  Melba reluctantly put down her magazine, a tattered copy of Silver Screen.

  “What’ll it be, then, Mayor Reverend,” Melba asked. “You know the choices.”

  The mayor mused over this for a minute, and then said: “Whatever looks more citified, I guess. We’ve got a real important guest comin’ to town, and I wanna make a good impression.”

  “Wel-l-l,” Melba said, pondering the possibilities. “All them movie stars have kinda wavy hair these days. We can stick some curlers in yers and then grease it back a little, like Tony Curtis or Desi Arnaz.”

  The mayor agreed. Melba drew the curtains shut in the front windows and put curlers and permanent-wave solution all over the mayor’s head. Then there was nothing to do but stare at each other while the perm settled in. Melba soon tired of this and buried her snout in her magazine again, and the mayor began chomping on his cigar again anxiously.

  A few minutes passed, and then Melba broke the silence. “Why on earth are you always chewin’ on that thing?” she asked the mayor, irritated by all of his smacking and gnashing. “You don’ even bother to light it.”

  “My wife won’t let me have cigars anymore,” he said woefully. “But I guess she can’t fault me if I chew on it without smokin’ it. Now put that magazine down, Melba. I got a real problem and I want your opinion on it.”

  This took Melba by surprise. People usually discouraged her opinions on anything and everything.

  “I’m all ears,” she said.

  “Well, the problem is this,” the mayor said. “I got this real important person comin’ to town. You wanna know who it is? It’s a secret, but I’ll tell you if you promise to help me. But it’s gotta stay a secret—you hear?”

  “You betcha,” said Melba, who was usually as discreet as a blaring army bugle.

  “All right—but you gotta keep your trap shut till I make some sort of announcement.” He took a deep breath. “You ever heard of … Luther Grimes?” he asked dramatically.

  There was a long silence.

  “No,” said Melba at last, somewhat resentfully. Like Franny’s classmates, she too had hoped that the Important Person would be a movie star. “I sure ain’t never heard of no Luther Grimes.”

  “Good Lord, Melba,” the mayor said. “What’s in those magazines that you’re readin’ all the time? You’re readin’ about celebrities and famous people all day long and you don’t even know who Luther Grimes is?”

  “No,” Melba repeated sullenly.

  The mayor gave out a frustrated sigh. “For your information, Luther Grimes is in the government of the United States. He is none other than one of four hundred and thirty-five members of the House of Repry-sentatives. He repry-sents our very own district here in Skaug County, Minnesota. Yessir, Mr. Grimes is a fine lawmaker and very important man in Washington, D.C.—our nation’s exalted capital.”

  “Oh,” said Melba, still not over her disappointment. “How can he be so important if there’s four hundred and thirty-five of ’em?”

  “He just is,” yelled the mayor, beginning to be sorry that he had enlisted Melba’s help. “Anyway, it ain’t him that’s comin’, it’s his wife, Eunice. She’s headin’ up some fancy literacy commission and she’s comin’ to town to meet the schoolkids.”

  “Why don’t you git to the point and tell me what yer dern problem is,” said Melba, her patience dwindling. She began to snap the curlers out of the mayor’s hair.
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  “Ow!” exclaimed the mayor, wincing under Melba’s indelicate touch. “Well—we gotta figure out how to entertain Mrs. Eunice while she’s here. I want to show her that Rusty Nail is somethin’ real special. Ow! Yessir, we gotta put on a show or somethin’. Lemme ask you this, Melba—what do you think is really special about this fine town? You’ve lived here all your life. Ouch!”

  Melba dropped the last of the used curlers into a big plastic bucket and thought. “Well, it used to be the American Coot Capital,” she offered.

  “I already thought of that,” the mayor said. “But we only got about seven of ’em left, and they’re all lame. And anyway, how could we put on a show usin’ only coots?”

  They fell into silence again.

  “I know,” said Melba. “If she’s comin’ to see the schoolkids, why don’tcha have them put on a play or somethin’.”

  “God help us,” said the mayor. “Can you imagine Runty Knutson up there on that stage? Why, Eunice Grimes would run out of town faster than a deer with the hunters on its tail. But you might be on to somethin’ there. Hmm.” He furrowed his brow in deep concentration. Suddenly he leaped up and shouted: “I got it, hallelujah!”

  Melba let out a scream, startled by this sudden outburst. “What’ve you got?” she gasped.

  The mayor’s eyes bulged with excitement. “I know what the show’s gonna be,” he said. “First, we’ll make the little kids do a play demonstratin’ the history of Rusty Nail—a real short, cute version. After that—and this is the good part—we’ll just truck that show-off Nancy Orilee up onto the school stage and make her play the pianer. After all, her parents’re always boastin” “bout how she ain’t hit a wrong note in two years.

  “And while we’re at it,” he continued zestily, “we’ll make Wes Hansen’s kid, Franny, play that old school pian-er too. Maybe we’ll make it a contest. Ooh, that’s good! We’ll bill the town as the home of the musical wonder children! Move over, coots—Rusty Nail is now the Midwestern Capital of Musical Prodigies! That’ll blow the boots off ole Eunice! By God, Melba, you’re a genius.” He threw himself back down into the pink chair, satisfied with his flash of brilliance.

  Melba blushed from the compliment as she fluffed up the mayor’s hair, which stuck up in parched, indignant tufts all over his head.

  “If you think I’m a genius now,” she said, “jest you wait until you get in frontuva mirror and see my handiwork, Mayor Reverend. I bet Mizz Eunice will be wantin’ a perm of her own.”

  A secret was nearly impossible to keep in a town as small as Rusty Nail, especially when someone like Melba was the one keeping it.

  That evening, after she closed up the Beauty Station, Melba marched eagerly down Main Street. Like a tick ready to burst, she blurted out the secret to the first person she saw: Stella Brunsvold, the popcorn lady. Stella then closed down her popcorn stand and stumped into Elmer’s Bar, where she ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and informed at least six other people about the imminent arrival of Mrs. Eunice Grimes of the literacy commission.

  After that, the word spread like wildfire. Soon phones in nearly every living room in Rusty Nail rang. The news reached Franny’s house at suppertime as the Hansen family was gnawing through a particularly plasticky meal of dry ham, lumpy mashed potatoes, and overcooked peas. When the phone rang, Franny’s dad gratefully shot up from the table to answer it.

  After a few minutes, he came back to the table and sat down. “I have some news,” he said, pushing his full plate aside. “About Franny.”

  Oh no, Franny thought. Jessie and Owen looked at each other and groaned.

  “Now what’d she do?” Owen said, reaching for his father’s unfinished portion. “Hell, Franny, you make me and Jessie look like goody-goodies.”

  Franny’s mother pinched Owen on the arm. “Owen! Do not use language like that, especially at the table! What’s the news, Wes?” She looked warily at Franny, who slid down her chair under the table.

  “That was Elmer down at the bar,” Wes said. “Apparently, an important visitor’s coming to town. The mayor’s going to ask Franny and Nancy Orilee to perform at a school concert in the VIP’s honor.”

  “What?” yelled Jessie. He and Owen hooted. “That’s right, Mr. Official—meet our model student, Franny Hansen,” Jessie said in a professional-sounding voice. “She’s never caused a lick of trouble. The finest and best-behaved girl in all of Minnesota, in fact.”

  “Our little star—Frances the Talking Mule,” Owen added. Francis the Talking Mule was a mule in the movies who did things like join the army and visit haunted houses.

  “Don’t tease your sister!” exclaimed Lorraine as Franny kicked her brothers’ shins under the table. And then, to Franny, she said: “Oh! That’s wonderful news, sweetheart! Your first performance.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  Franny couldn’t even say a word. A concert! On stage! How on earth had her wish come true? Things like that never happened in Rusty Nail! Maybe her fortunes were changing after all—and this important visitor was clearly her lucky charm.

  But then a black thought crossed Franny’s mind.

  “Wait a minute—did you say that both me and Nancy are going to be giving the concert?” she asked.

  “That’s what Elmer said,” replied Wes. “But I’m sure we’ll find out more tomorrow.”

  Franny flounced back in her chair. Why did Nancy Orilee have to plague every single one of her moments of glory? But after thinking about it for a few minutes, Franny realized that there was a silver lining even to that dark cloud: if Franny played extra well at the concert, she could prove to everyone in Rusty Nail that she was a better pianist than Nancy, and put her enemy to shame once and for all.

  Wes sat back and beamed. “No dish washing for you tonight, Mozart,” he said. “We’re real proud of you. Now you’d better hustle over to that piano and practice. It’s not going to play itself, you know.” He reached over and ruffled her hair.

  Franny liked it when her dad called her “Mozart,” after the famous composer. Mozart had been so good at the piano that he’d given concerts for kings and queens when he was still a young boy. And now, for the first time, the nickname seemed appropriate.

  She ran to the piano and practiced until bedtime.

  The next morning, when Franny walked into her classroom, Miss Hamm mildly called her to the front of the room.

  “Mr. Moody would like to see you in his office,” she said. “It’s good news this time.”

  Franny galloped down the hallway and around the corner to the principal’s office. She was dismayed to find Nancy Orilee already standing outside the yellow glass door.

  “I don’t know why they’re asking you to play at this concert too,” whispered Nancy to Franny. “I guess out of charity or something.”

  Franny scowled. “You’re the prissiest, most spoiled—” she started.

  Just at that moment, Mr. Moody whipped his door open. “What were you saying, Frances Hansen?” he asked, towering over her. Plumes of cigarette smoke wafted out behind him, as though he’d just stepped out of a volcano.

  “Nothing,” Franny said innocently.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Follow me and close the door.” He disappeared back into the haze, sat down at his desk, and informed them that the rumors were true: Mayor Reverend Jerry had asked them to perform at an assembly in honor of an illustrious woman named Mrs. Eunice Grimes.

  “Nancy, you’ll go first,” he said. Nancy smiled smugly and looked over at Franny.

  “And you’ll wrap things up,” he added, pointing a pencil at Franny. “The mayor said this concert is important, so you’d better not botch it up. And no antics up there on the stage, Frances, or you’ll be sorry you ever touched a piano.”

  “I’ll do a good job, sir,” cooed Nancy. “Don’t you worry.”

  Mr. Moody lit another cigarette and coughed. “Both of you better practice hard,” he said. “Now beat it. Oh, and break a leg.”

  When
Franny and Nancy got back to their classroom, Miss Hamm had turned out all of the lights, had propped up the old film projector in the back of the room, and was showing the class boring safety cartoons. They had already learned about the perils of playing with matches, and were now being schooled in how to protect themselves in case of a Russian nuclear attack.

  Franny slid into her chair and ignored the film, which she’d seen every year since kindergarten. It featured a monkey in a tree holding a stick of dynamite over a turtle, who darted under his shell in the nick of time. A chorus sang along cheerfully:

  There was a turtle by the name of

  Bert,

  And Bert the turtle was very alert.

  When danger threatened him,

  he never got hurt.

  He knew just what to do….

  He ducked!

  And covered!

  After the cartoon, a man showed a bunch of kids in a classroom like Franny’s how to hide under their desks if their town was ever bombed.

  “You’ll hear an explosion like you’ve never heard before,” he threatened.

  Just then, Runty Knutson let out a terrific belch. All of the kids shrieked with laughter, and several of the other boys began a burping contest. Miss Hamm was beside herself as she tried to restore order.

  Franny took advantage of the distraction to tell Sandy about her conference with Mr. Moody.

  Sandy let out a whoop of excitement. “Hot diggitydog!” she exclaimed. “In front of the whole school and town? Wow, wow, wow!”

  At lunchtime, the girls took their trays out into the schoolyard, where they could discuss the development privately.

  “You know, Franny—this could be your big chance,” Sandy said as she peeled a piece of salmon-colored bologna out of her sandwich and threw it on the ground. “And it’s better that you’re goin’ last in the concert, because you’ll be the one everyone remembers. I bet Mr. Moody planned it that way because he knows you’re better than Prancy. You’d better practice real hard this week.”

  “I know,” said Franny. “I’m going to. I want Nancy to look like she’s playing a washboard next to me.”