A Merry Little Christmas (9 page)

Even through the crashing noises, she could feel the next wave of trouble. Her pickup sputtered. The engine hesitated two more times. She hadn’t gone through any deep water. Had she gotten some bad gas in Lancaster?
Lord, I can’t break down now. This is not a good time, and you know how I am about Oklahoma storms.

Franny slowed her vehicle, leaned toward the windshield, and gripped the steering wheel until her hands felt as if they were on fire. Her breathing sped up, and her mind seemed as though it might spiral out of control. What were these wretched sensations that took over her being, that always plagued her during a bad storm? She’d never been to a doctor with her malady, but she knew the episodes were attached to her parents and their accident. However, no matter how well she understood the emotional assaults, they still tormented her just the same.

Franny thought a scream might help her release some of the tension, but just when she felt like letting one fly, the hail ceased its attack, the winds died down, and the pickup seemed to cough up whatever was stuck in its throat. She relaxed her breathing, gave her old International a pat on the wheel, and thanked God for His tender mercies. Just to the north, the clouds broke their stronghold on the sky, and rays of sunshine forced their way through the gloom, creating a sunburst. Beautiful.

With renewed hope, Franny took the map and directions from her purse and unfolded the paper. Her aunt lived on the edge of Oklahoma City, so she would be there soon enough. Maybe in the meantime she could practice being a deejay. Then again, maybe not. She’d certainly rehearsed often enough on the farm. Of course, the hogs never had any feedback. Maybe the radio stations would have a script. Even if they didn’t tell her what to say, wouldn’t it be easy to spin records and talk about music? A tiny crack formed in her confidence, but she wasn’t about to let it slow her down.

Once Franny had made all the right turns and found the correct street where her aunt had always lived, she cruised slowly as she counted the numbers to make sure she had the right home. Within moments she sat in front of what had to be her aunt’s house. But the home looked dilapidated, the sidewalk was cracked, and several of the pine trees had died. Nothing looked right. What could have happened? Franny opened the door to the pickup, and with an anxious spirit in tow, she made her way up the stone path to the porch and then to the front door.

Franny sent up a little prayer as she rang the bell. But she already suspected that her aunt no longer lived there. A woman from next door came out onto her front porch. “Hey, you lookin’ for old Beatrice?” The neighbor talked as if she had a mouthful of pebbles.

“Yes, ma’am, I am. She’s my aunt.”

“She ain’t lived here for over a year.” The woman pulled some silver tinsel from her hair and stuffed it into her pocket.

Franny moved closer to the edge of the porch to hear the woman better. “Do you know where she moved to?”

“No sirree. She never told me where she went off to, and I never asked.”

“She wasn’t ill, was she?”

“Old Bee was so tough, you couldn’t kill her if you ran her over with a bus.” The woman wiped her mouth with her housedress.

Franny stepped back a little. Not the best neighbor for Aunt Bee.

“That’s a relief, to hear she’s doing—”

“Looky here, I’m decoratin’ my tree and got banana-nut bread burning in the oven.” The woman went back inside her house and slammed the door loud enough to sound like a shotgun blast. Then that was it. She never came back out to finish the conversation.

Well, that wasn’t very neighborly. Franny sighed. Guess she should have kept up with her aunt better, but Beatrice was a loner and Franny had been so busy on the farm that keeping in touch wasn’t easy. Franny shook her head at herself and got back into her pickup.

There was nothing to do but keep rolling with her plan—to apply for a job at every radio station in town and then find a motel for the night. Franny removed another piece of paper from her purse and studied it. Using an Oklahoma City map, she’d written out directions to all six stations in the area. If she hurried, and if she skipped lunch, she’d be able to apply at every one of them before closing time.

One by one, Franny drove to each station. Each time before going inside she put on more pink lipstick, tidied her dress, and prayed every kind of prayer she knew how to pray. But each time she went in to apply, the manager of the station said they weren’t hiring. Not even for a receptionist, let alone for a disc jockey. She’d checked out the big ones and little start-up ones as well as the fancy new FM station in town. Nothing. Not a hint of hope. No one even wanted to hire her as a janitor.

There was only one radio station she hadn’t been to—one that was so tiny, it hadn’t even made it onto her dream-job list. The station, K-BOM, probably didn’t broadcast any farther than a block, but she would give it a try since there was nothing left for her to do.

When she pulled up in front of K-BOM Radio, she laughed. The structure was built with gray cinder blocks and had a tower the size of a child’s toy, but she still felt determined. She straightened her little hat, looked up to the heavens beseechingly, and strode inside.

There was no receptionist to greet her, so she followed the dark hallway to a glowing red light. When Franny got to the door, she watched the deejay through the glass window. The young man—who had a modified beatnik look, a short, cropped beard, and hair long enough to look just like a woman—sat as still as stone behind a console and two turntables.

The man smiled when he saw her. Well, at least that was something. After the queued-up record began to play, he took off his headphones and popped his head around the door. He slid his dark glasses down his nose, which revealed blue eyes that looked a bit glazed. “What’s going down, little momma?” The smell of smoke nearly gagged her, and it had a strange odor she’d never smelled before.

Franny tried her best not to cough in his face and instead put on her best smile. “Hi, I’m Franny Martin.”

“Lester Ivy. Gimme some skin.”

“Skin?”

Lester reached out his hand, and she shook it. “Sorry, I didn’t know what you meant.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

Franny twiddled with her pillbox hat and then admonished herself for fidgeting.

In the meantime Lester looked her over. “Nice rags.”

She smiled but was puzzled, since his insult didn’t seem to fit his friendly tone.

Lester leaned against the door frame, looking a little discombobulated. “So, where you from?”

“A farm near Hesterville.”

“Far out.”

Franny nodded. “Yeah, it really is. It’s sort of like living on the moon.”

“I’m getting some good vibes here.” Lester wiggled his eyebrows. “Hey, I’m a jazz musician from Haight-Ashbury. Man, we got this new thing going down…spicy tunes, good energy.”

“Cool,” was all Franny could think to say in his vernacular, but she had no idea where Haight-Ashbury was. She blurted, “I would like to apply for a job.”

“I dig. Everybody needs a gig. But I don’t have anything.” He pulled out the lining of his pockets and then stared at them as if they were infinitely fascinating.

“That’s fine. Thanks…anyway.”

“I know, bummer, right?”

“Yes, bummer.” Franny nodded. Lester didn’t rush back inside, so she stayed put, just to take one last look through the window before saying good-bye to the silliest dream she’d ever cooked up. Actually, it was the only dream she’d ever cooked up. She looked at him. “I just love music, you know? Ever since I can remember. Crazy, right?”

“Yeah…craazzy.”

Franny twisted the straps on her purse. “Well, ever since I heard Daddy playing his harmonica and Momma singing along, I felt smitten with music.”

“Right on.” Lester did some kind of Egyptian gesture with his arms and hands. “I got my love of music from my old man and old lady too.”

Franny shrugged. “I just wanted to be near the music.” She dropped her gaze to the f loor as she felt a full day of “no-thankyous” weighing on her spirit.

“Just hang loose there, little momma. Something’ll come along.”

“Thanks.”

“Got a request?” Lester pointed to the shelves of records.

Franny licked her dry lips. “Maybe something Christmasy.”

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Sinatra’s ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’ ”

“Mmm. That’s bad.”

“Bad?”

“You know, groovy choice. Love Sinatra’s music. I met him once. Cool cat.”

“Groovy. Thank you.”

Lester looked inside the studio. “Hey, gotta jam.” He slipped his shades back on. “Later.”

“Later, man.” Franny grinned, having only a vague notion of what she’d just said.

The deejay gave the door frame a few fast thumps as if it were a bongo drum and then headed back inside his world—near the music.

Franny stood there for a moment as she tried to recover from her encounter with Lester. Was that the way folks talked in other parts of America? She hadn’t even heard people on TV talking that way. Apparently she was unaware, concerning the ways of the world. But then, her sweet mother would have told her that naïveté wasn’t a sin.

Lester pulled a forty-five out of his wall of music, rested it gingerly on the turntable, and queued it up to play. After a brief advertisement for the Sunnyside Up Diner, Lester cozied up to the silver mic as if he were about to kiss it and said, “This song is for a gal I just met, a real hip chick named Franny, who loves to be near the music. Yes, nothing can swing the mood like a Christmas tune. This is for you, sweet momma.”

Within seconds, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” was playing, and right away it took her back to Charlie—when she’d first met him. The song reminded her of everything she’d left behind. What had she done? Was it all gone forever? Now she could no longer imagine herself as a deejay. The fantasy fizzled right before her eyes. She had little hope for a merry Christmas this year. She’d be alone in the city—without a friend.

Franny wondered if the sound of it could be heard—the sound of her heart breaking. She didn’t look back as she fled to her pickup and soundly shut the door behind her. She moved her little Brownie camera to the floor. She had hoped to pose for a photograph on her first day of work, but there was no job, and not even a hint of one.

There was a telephone booth on the corner. How she wished she could call Charlie. He’d give her the understanding and kindness she craved, the comfort she longed for. But it was too soon, and the pain of the day’s rejection was too palpable. Too sharp. She’d hoped to call him someday soon with good news. But obviously, it was not meant to be after all.

God, help me. Any nerve or willpower or uprightness I ever gathered in my years has all been spent in a day. Or perhaps this day proves that I never had any of those qualities at all. I am running on the fumes of a fool now. I am emptied out, and in great need of Your mercy.

Franny stayed in the general neighborhood, driving around aimlessly, feeling like a marble rolling around on the floor. Never had she imagined such utter failure. She’d always believed that once people saw her enthusiasm and energy and determination, they would hire her. At least as a receptionist. They hadn’t even allowed her to fill out an application. What could have gone wrong?

Franny’s stomach grumbled in rebellion, so she stopped at a local diner, one that couldn’t be missed since it had a gargantuan hamburger on its roof. She sat at the counter, hearing and smelling the grease splattering on the grill, and finally ordered a foot-long chili dog. When it arrived, hot and overflowing with chili and all nestled in its little red basket, she suddenly didn’t have much of an appetite. She took a sip of her root beer instead.

Flashbacks of being with Charlie those three weeks began frolicking through her head. Even though there was a bittersweetness that went with them, one by one she let the scenes play. Like the time they’d helped the sow birth her piglets, and when they were fishing side by side. When they took their TV trays into the living room and watched
The Ed Sullivan Show
. The times Charlie played Christmas carols on his guitar, and when they listened to all their favorite records—folk, doo-wop, gospel, and rock and roll.

She was into some serious reminiscing when the young woman next to her asked, “Would you please pass the salt?”

“Sure.” Franny handed her the shaker.

“Thanks.” The woman wiggled in her seat.

“You’re welcome.” When Franny tried going back to her sweet memories it was useless. Now she was distracted by the woman’s skirt, if a person could call it that. She wore black slick boots up to her knees, and a red cashmere top that showed her midriff! Her mother would have found some extra material to sew over that bare tummy right away. And wasn’t she freezing in that thing?

Franny glanced around. No one else seemed concerned about the woman’s apparel. Guess she’d been living in the dark ages out at the farm.

While Franny went back to sipping her root beer, a man strutted out of the back room wearing a paisley shirt, a jade-colored sleeveless tunic, and a plaid fedora. The man was a walking carnival. Franny tried not to let her mouth fly open at the sight.

The man leered at the woman who was half-dressed and said, “How ya doing? I’m Arnold, the owner of this fine establishment.”

Since the young woman didn’t run the other way, the owner rewarded her with an exaggerated wink.

Surprisingly, the woman winked back.

My goodness gracious.

Arnold took one of the silver bells off the aluminum Christmas tree near the counter, jingled it, and then set it next to her.

The woman grinned.

Then he slid the stack of donuts over to her and leisurely removed the glass dome lid. “On the house for such a pretty lady. Your pick.”

Hmm. Perhaps you ought to pick up some of that drool while you’re at it, Arnold.

“No thanks,” the woman said, wiggling in her seat. “I’m watching my figure.”

At that point, anyone could read old Arnold’s mind—he was watching her figure too. To his credit he didn’t say it out loud, but Franny couldn’t believe the owner would be so intimate with a woman who appeared to be a complete stranger to him. Didn’t he have any sense of propriety? Guess not. And on another level, Arnold certainly hadn’t offered
her
a free donut. In fact, he didn’t even tip his silly hat at her or acknowledge her presence.