The Loud Silence of Francine Green Read Online Free PDF

for the door when Artie stopped in front of a phone booth. "I want to check for nickels," he said, climbing onto the seat.
    "Come
on,
" I said, pulling his hand.
    "Noooo!" cried Artie, grabbing onto the dial of the telephone and holding on tight. And then he wailed, "Fran-
seeeeen,
get me outa here!" His finger was stuck in the dial. I tried pulling it free, but it just got stuck tighter and tighter and Artie wailed louder and louder. People stopped to watch us, a red-faced girl and a little boy hanging by his finger from the telephone dial.
    "Let me try," said a man in a blue jacket that had
Leroy, Manager
embroidered on the pocket. He opened a jar of Vaseline and smeared some on the dial and Artie's finger. A few tugs and the finger came free.
    Leroy Manager, was shaking with the laughter he was too polite to let out. "Thank you, Mister Leroy," 1 said, and hurried Artie away. My arm hurt from yanking on Artie and my face burned with humiliation. And Sophie thought I wouldn't like being an only child. Ha! Not today.
    "Now don't go telling Mother any of this," I said once we were outside. "Do you hear me?" I looked at Artie's face. He

would be telling Mother before the front door slammed behind us.

    After all that, I was happy to spend my nickels to go home on the bus. Artie slept, his head bobbing against my shoulder, glasses sagging. He had a smile on his face and Rice Krispies stuck to his fingers. I pushed his glasses back up onto his nose.
    What a day. What a lot of stuff for Artie to tell Mother. He snored softly, and I rested my head on his, breathing in the familiar warm, salty, little-boy smell.
    We got off the bus at the stop near the Petrovs' store. Tiny, red-haired Mrs. Petrov was washing the front windows. I could see smeared red paint saying
Russkies go home
and a big six-pointed star on the glass. When she saw us, she shook her head. "That's why Petrov and I left Russia, to get away from such thugs," she said. "And now look, they follow us here. Russia explodes an atom bomb and it's our fault?"
    Russia? Atom bomb? Where? Were people dead? Were we at war? I took Artie's hand and ran home, my face turned to the sky, watching for Russian planes loaded with bombs for Palm View Drive.
    "Mama," Artie cried as we ran in the door, "Francine losted me and a telephone tried to eat me and—"
    His shouts were drowned out by my own. "Mother. Mother!" I called, letting the screen door slam behind me.
    "In here, Francine," she said from the kitchen, "and don't be so noisy."
    The kitchen smelled of dish soap and coffee, familiar

and comforting. My mother and father were sitting at the table. She was clipping penny-off coupons from a magazine. Artie climbed into her lap and snuggled down.

    I sat down too. "I just saw Mrs. Petrov. She said something about Russia dropping an atom bomb. Is that true?"
    My father rustled his newspaper. "I was just reading it here. It was a test. Soviet scientists have successfully tested an atomic bomb." He shook his head. "Communist Russia with the bomb. That Mao fellow and his communist army in China. Commies fighting the French in Indochina. The world is getting a whole lot more dangerous."
    All I knew about communists was that they believed everyone owned everything in common, wore fur hats, and hated God and America. Now they had an atom bomb. My stomach fell between my knees, or at least that's what it felt like. "Will they drop the bomb on us?"
    My father leaned over and ruffled Artie's hair with one big hand and mine with the other. "Now, don't you little guys start worrying. You got the U.S. government, your mother, and me. We won't let anything bad happen to you."
    I got up to leave the kitchen but stopped and turned back. "Oh, I just remembered. Somebody painted nasty stuff on the Petrovs' window."
    "Oh, poor Luba," my mother said. "I have to call her."
    "Stay out of it, Lorraine," said my father.
    "Why would someone do that?" I asked him. "The Petrovs aren't communists, are