THE RAIN CAME THAT night and continued into the next morning. Frankie lay in her bed facing the window and watched the rain shadows dance down the curtains in crooked lines. Her body ached with sorrow, as if from a bad dream that she couldn’t remember. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, she blinked away the fog and tried to call up the events of the day before in her mind.
When they came, oh my, they came. Like horses breaking free of their pen, the memories ran through her. She sat up in bed, wondering how long she’d been sleeping and if Mother had come home from the hospital with any news of Daddy. Across the dark room, Elizabeth’s bed was empty and made up. Frankie pushed against the lump beside her as she pulled her legs from under the covers. “Come on, Bismarck,” she said. “Move.”
“I’m not Bismarck,” said Joan, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
“Joanie!” yelled Frankie. “You’re here!” She threw her arms around Joan’s neck and knocked her back on her pillow. “What are you doing here?”
Joan squeezed Frankie tight. “Fritz came up to Aunt Dottie’s to get me, you know, after. We got home late and you were already asleep. I tried to wake you up, but you just kept calling me Bismarck.” Frankie let go and they sat across from each other on the bed, knees to knees. Joan turned on the bedside table lamp. “I’m really glad to be . . .” And then she looked at her pillow and her side of the bed, which were covered in dog hair. “Didn’t I tell you not to let Bismarck get too used to my side?”
“Didn’t I tell you to stop bossing me so?” Then Frankie stared at Joan’s curls. “Oh no, your hair!”
“Don’t you dare laugh, Frankie. It’s awful, I know.” She pulled at her curls to try to straighten them, but as soon as she let go, they snapped back into perfect ringlets.
“You do sort of look like Shirley Temple.”
“Frankie!” said Joan.
“All right,” said Frankie. “I won’t say anything else about it.”
“Thank you.” Joan stretched out her legs, which nearly reached to the foot of the bed. “I don’t know how it happened,” she said, “but this bed got smaller.”
They both laughed, but then immediately felt bad for doing so, and were quiet. “Did you see Mother?” asked Frankie.
Joan shook her head. “She wasn’t here when I got home.”
“She must be home by now,” said Frankie.
Their feet hit the wood floor at the same time, and when they reached the hall, Frankie was two steps ahead.
Elizabeth and Grandma Engel were on the living room sofa, sitting on either side of Mother. She was pale, except for her eyes, which were puffy and pink. She clutched her eyeglasses in her hand, and without them on, there was a trace of young Mildred Engel, scared and alone among the garbage cans, hiding from the truant officer.
“Girls,” said Grandma Engel, when Frankie and Joan came into the room. “Have a seat.”
“Joan,” said Mother. She opened her arms and brought her in. “Welcome home, dear. It’s wonderful to see you.” Joan kissed her damp cheek.
“What about Daddy?” asked Frankie. Her breath caught when she said his name.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, girls,” said Mother.
Then Joan went back to Frankie and grabbed her hand. They squeezed into the easy chair together. And they waited.