Front Lines. Майкл Грант

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СКАЧАТЬ know we don’t really know each other all that well. But I was wondering whether you might go see a movie with me tomorrow night. Then I could write to you when I’m away. But now if you’re going away as well, so . . .” He looks exhausted suddenly, as if he’s used up the last of his courage getting the conversation this far.

      “I imagine soldiers can write to each other,” Rio says, sounding chirpy and false to herself. “I mean, wherever you are, and wherever I am, we could still write letters back and forth. Couldn’t we?”

       What are you doing? Enlisting? Or going on a date?

      But she can hear Jenou’s voice in her head, and that voice says, “Oh come on now, honey; you know exactly what you’re doing.”

      Rio’s suggestion gives Strand an infusion of energy, perhaps a little too much energy, as he practically shouts, “Yes! Yes, we could, couldn’t we? After all, it’s not as if you’ll be off in the trenches somewhere. They’ll keep the girls here in the States. Or perhaps send some to England, but in any case, you’ll be able to write.” He claps his hands, then seems surprised by those very hands, stares at them for a second in confusion, sticks them into his pockets, and goes on. “We could compare notes on . . . on army life. Of course we could. Why not?”

      “And it would make sense for us to know each other a little better before embarking on this correspondence,” Rio says.

       Embarking on this correspondence?

      That sends his eyebrows up.

      “Yes, that was an interesting phrase,” Rio admits ruefully. “I meant, a movie, like you said, we could go to a movie.”

      “Yes! That’s it, of course, because I did mention a movie, didn’t I? Tomorrow night. That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”

      “Of course!” she says, and it comes out as a squeak.

      Well-raised boy that he is, Strand walks her the rest of the way home, but the only conversation takes place between voices in Rio’s own head. She has just upended her entire life based on a diner conversation with her best friend and an awkward exchange with a boy she barely knows.

      Now, right now, here at her front door where she must say good evening, is the time to take it all back.

       But I do want to go to a movie with him. I do want to.

      “Good night, Strand.”

      “I’ll come by at seven, if that’s all right with you.”

      “That would be perfect.”

      Rio rushes inside, closes the door behind her, and leans against it.

      She is going on a date.

      And also, going to war.

3

       FRANGIE MARR—GREENWOOD DISTRICT, TULSA, OKLAHOMA, USA

      “I don’t want you to go, baby.”

      Dorothy Marr tugs at the fabric, lines it up, glances at the spool of thread, presses the pedal, and ree-ree-ree-ree-ree-ree.

      “I know that, Mother,” Frangie Marr says. “But you can’t pay the bills on your own. We’ll end up in the street if I don’t.”

      Just about eighteen hundred miles east and a little south of Gedwell Falls, eighteen-year-old Frangie Marr sits with her mother on the screened porch where her mother hauls her battered sewing machine on hot, humid nights like this.

      The screens have been torn and patched and torn again, and the mosquitoes have memorized every last one of the holes. Unseasonably warm weather has released the insects from their slumber, and Frangie slaps one that lands on her arm, leaving a spot of her own blood that she flicks away.

      She’s a tiny thing, Frangie Marr, that’s what people always say about her and have since she was twelve. Her adolescent growth spurt came late and petered out early. Until age fourteen she’d been just four foot ten. Now she is five foot one—if she cheats a bit and sort of lifts herself up in her shoes.

      Her mother presses the pedal on the sewing machine and runs a dozen stitches. The rabbity sound of the machine has always been part of Frangie’s life, though it used to be slower before they had electricity and the machine was foot-powered.

      “You should get some sleep, Mother.” Frangie is tired of this conversation; she’s had it before. Each time her mother tells her she doesn’t have to go, and each time Frangie says she does. It feels like her mother is pushing off the responsibility, like she wants to be able to say, I told her not to go. Maybe Frangie’s being unfair thinking that, but she feels what she feels.

      “Can’t sleep, sweetie, you know I have to get this dress done for tomorrow morning. You know Miss Ellie.”

      “Oh, I know Miss Ellie,” Frangie says. “That is one complaining white woman.” This is safer territory for conversation. Frangie complains about her mother’s customers, and her mother in turn says things like, “Oh, she’s not so bad, ” or “Well, she has her ways. ”

      Sure enough: “She’s all right,” Dorothy Marr says with tolerant smile. “At least she pays on time. And she had that ham sent around for Easter.”

      Yes, she pays on time, and when Frangie was younger Miss Ellie would rub her head and say, “Need me some pickaninny juju.”

      Frangie despised that and despised the woman. If she’d actually had any juju she’d have used it for her family or for herself, not transferred it to a skinny, mouse-haired, flint-eyed white woman. When Miss Ellie wasn’t rubbing Frangie’s head for luck she was making remarks like, “I reckon I could scour my pans bright with that brushy Nigra hair of yours.”

      At times like that Frangie’s mother would press her lips tight into something that was not quite a smile, but not a readable expression of disapproval either. One did not talk back to white folk or object to words like pickaninny or Nigra, no, not even when it was your own daughter being referred to with casual condescension and unearned familiarity.

       Maybe it’ll be different in the army.

      Frangie raises her glass of barely sweet tea and says, “To getting paid.”

      Her mother winces. “I always wanted you to finish school, Frangie. I saw you maybe going to college. Maybe being a doctor. That’s what you’ve been saying since you were four years old.”

      “Aren’t a lot of colored doctors around.” Frangie has to say it to show she’s not some silly dreamer. She dreams all right, but she can’t set herself up to look foolish when she fails. That particular dream is for her, just for her, not even for her mother.

      “Used to be before the trouble. Used be black doctors, black lawyers, even that old professor.”

      “And what happened?” Frangie asks rhetorically. “White folks rioted and burned everything down. All those doctors and lawyers and such СКАЧАТЬ