to Frances. "You run upstairs and have your bath and get all pretty for the show. Saturday night tonight."
Grandmother Milne held the door open with one hand, and took charge of Frances with another. But Frances stood her ground, in the hallway, turning to her father.
"Afterward can I show you my ballet steps?" she asked.
Her father smiled his huge, too-wide grin. "Sure, Baby. I'll be here," he whispered.
"Come on then, Granny, let's get this over with," said Frances with a theatrical sigh.
"Cute as a button," grunted Grandmother Milne. "Knows it too."
Her daddy was left behind in the hall.
Upstairs, her mother was waiting. She knelt down in front of Frances to kiss her, as if coming back from Los Angeles were like returning from an even longer journey. "Hiya, Baby," she said, smelling of makeup and lipstick and perfume. She was slightly damp with the heat. Honest and sticky. "Good picture?" Mama asked.
"Oh yes, it was about a man running around the skyscrapers."
"Many people there?" Her mother's face was crossed with concern.
"No," said Frances in a small voice.
"Well, early days yet," said her mother, her voice wavering.
"There were two boys talking to Daddy, but they didn't look very nice."
Mrs. Gumm went very still. "Were there? What wasn't nice about them?"
"They looked funny," said Frances, watching her mother. She had meant to cheer her up by telling her about people who had come to the show. "He says they come every Saturday."
"I bet they do," said her mother. She started playing with her daughter's hair, rubbing it between her fingers. "You're as dusty as a welcome mat," she said, with a sudden wrench of emotion. "Honestly, this place! You need a brush just to walk down the street."
Then she kissed her daughter, hard, on the cheek, and stayed there, on her knees for a full moment. Then she pulled back. She was trying to be cheerful, but Frances could see that she wasn't. "How about a bath?"
"Will it be cold?" Frances asked.
"Yes, Baby, nice and cold," said her mother, and stood up.
Frances skipped toward the bathroom. The bathtub was already full, and Frances held her arms over her head, dancing to have the dusty little dress pulled off. There were two kinds of clothes: ordinary clothes, which usually had once been her sisters', and show clothes. Show clothes were nicer, but scratched more and were specially made.
The gray little dress was hoisted off. "Janie and Jinny start school soon," said Frances, under its momentary shelter.
"Yes, Baby. Seventh and fifth grade, if you can credit it." Mrs. Gumm shook her head as she folded the dress. Frances shook her head too, at the unattainable heights of the seventh grade.
"How long before I'm in the seventh grade?" she asked. It was the summit of her ambition.
"Oh, years and years yet," said Mrs. Gumm, leaning over and testing the bathwater with her plump hands.
"How old will I be then?"
"Oh, about thirteen."
"And will I go to school just like Janie?"
"Maybe," said Mrs. Gumm.
"Daddy says you've got some other plans for me."
"Did he?" said Mrs. Gumm briskly and looked at her daughter.
"Yes," said Frances, pleased,, because the plans meant that she was someone special. She tried to hug her mother again, but her mother swept her up and put her in the cool water.
"Oooooooo!" said Frances, squirming with the shock and with delight.
"Don't splash, Baby."
"It's nice and cool." Frances slid down under the water. She liked to hold her breath underwater. She felt the edge of the water close in over her bobbed and dusty hair. Her mother lifted her back up.
"Are you going to wash my hair?"
"Yes, honey."
"With 'poo?" asked Frances and giggled because it sounded rude.
"Yes," said her mother. "See?" Her mother held up a bottle of baby shampoo. She poured shampoo onto her hands. "Now turn around. Close your eyes."
Frances loved having her head rubbed and she loved the smell of the shampoo and the feel of her
Grandmother Milne held the door open with one hand, and took charge of Frances with another. But Frances stood her ground, in the hallway, turning to her father.
"Afterward can I show you my ballet steps?" she asked.
Her father smiled his huge, too-wide grin. "Sure, Baby. I'll be here," he whispered.
"Come on then, Granny, let's get this over with," said Frances with a theatrical sigh.
"Cute as a button," grunted Grandmother Milne. "Knows it too."
Her daddy was left behind in the hall.
Upstairs, her mother was waiting. She knelt down in front of Frances to kiss her, as if coming back from Los Angeles were like returning from an even longer journey. "Hiya, Baby," she said, smelling of makeup and lipstick and perfume. She was slightly damp with the heat. Honest and sticky. "Good picture?" Mama asked.
"Oh yes, it was about a man running around the skyscrapers."
"Many people there?" Her mother's face was crossed with concern.
"No," said Frances in a small voice.
"Well, early days yet," said her mother, her voice wavering.
"There were two boys talking to Daddy, but they didn't look very nice."
Mrs. Gumm went very still. "Were there? What wasn't nice about them?"
"They looked funny," said Frances, watching her mother. She had meant to cheer her up by telling her about people who had come to the show. "He says they come every Saturday."
"I bet they do," said her mother. She started playing with her daughter's hair, rubbing it between her fingers. "You're as dusty as a welcome mat," she said, with a sudden wrench of emotion. "Honestly, this place! You need a brush just to walk down the street."
Then she kissed her daughter, hard, on the cheek, and stayed there, on her knees for a full moment. Then she pulled back. She was trying to be cheerful, but Frances could see that she wasn't. "How about a bath?"
"Will it be cold?" Frances asked.
"Yes, Baby, nice and cold," said her mother, and stood up.
Frances skipped toward the bathroom. The bathtub was already full, and Frances held her arms over her head, dancing to have the dusty little dress pulled off. There were two kinds of clothes: ordinary clothes, which usually had once been her sisters', and show clothes. Show clothes were nicer, but scratched more and were specially made.
The gray little dress was hoisted off. "Janie and Jinny start school soon," said Frances, under its momentary shelter.
"Yes, Baby. Seventh and fifth grade, if you can credit it." Mrs. Gumm shook her head as she folded the dress. Frances shook her head too, at the unattainable heights of the seventh grade.
"How long before I'm in the seventh grade?" she asked. It was the summit of her ambition.
"Oh, years and years yet," said Mrs. Gumm, leaning over and testing the bathwater with her plump hands.
"How old will I be then?"
"Oh, about thirteen."
"And will I go to school just like Janie?"
"Maybe," said Mrs. Gumm.
"Daddy says you've got some other plans for me."
"Did he?" said Mrs. Gumm briskly and looked at her daughter.
"Yes," said Frances, pleased,, because the plans meant that she was someone special. She tried to hug her mother again, but her mother swept her up and put her in the cool water.
"Oooooooo!" said Frances, squirming with the shock and with delight.
"Don't splash, Baby."
"It's nice and cool." Frances slid down under the water. She liked to hold her breath underwater. She felt the edge of the water close in over her bobbed and dusty hair. Her mother lifted her back up.
"Are you going to wash my hair?"
"Yes, honey."
"With 'poo?" asked Frances and giggled because it sounded rude.
"Yes," said her mother. "See?" Her mother held up a bottle of baby shampoo. She poured shampoo onto her hands. "Now turn around. Close your eyes."
Frances loved having her head rubbed and she loved the smell of the shampoo and the feel of her
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