Stained Penny Serenade

by Katie Roxberry

Frannie could hear voices downstairs. She inched closer to the bedroom door, cracking it open to hear better.

“... just stopped by to see …”

Mrs. Lindstrom, their neighbor, was always “stopping by to see.” She “stopped by to see” when Betsy moved back in after Fred headed out to sea on the USS Yorktown. Mama knew how to handle Mrs. Lindstrom’s nosy questions the best, but their parents had left five minutes ago for a memorial service.

“... well, all things considered,” Frannie’s sister’s answer floated upstairs. “She received another letter last week … damn postal service.”

“... head still in the clouds?”

Frannie couldn’t hear her older sister’s answer.

“... isn’t healthy, you know …”

“Tell her,” Frannie whispered, her ear still pressed to the open crack. “Tell her, Betsy, about the fortune card. About my strength. The genie is never wrong.”

* * *

The carnival came to town in the spring of their junior year. Frannie and George had shared cotton candy on a paper cone as they walked through the maze of glittering steel rides. They passed by the ten cent attraction tents, laughing over the thought of a serpent-woman. From behind red-and-white-striped booths, attendants’ cajoles of “How’d you kids like to win a prize?” rang out. Towards the end of the night, Frannie grabbed George’s hand and pulled him toward the bearded mechanical man, dressed in colorful layers and crowned with a turban, sitting inside the glass box.

“Let’s get our fortunes told!”

“We don’t need a fortune teller. I already know your future. You’re going to be ... a professional baseball player.”

Frannie had laughed, then fed a coin into the machine and crossed her fingers. “Great traveling genie, grant me that wish!”  

The machine whirred and the Fortune Teller’s eyes glowed as he came to life. George grabbed the dispensed card that dropped down onto the tray. He read the cursive script printed on the card before looking at her with a half-cocked smile. “You will be given great strength.”

* * *

That was three years ago. Three years of poring over every newspaper article that mentioned the War and holding her breath during every newsreel. The stack of letters on her bureau were reassuring—you’re my girl, Frannie. I can’t wait until this war is over and I can be with you again—but they were sporadic. No amount of birthday wishes or shooting stars could get him to tell her exactly where he was in Europe. 

Downstairs, Betsy’s reply to Mrs. Lindstrom could be heard loud and clear. “Reality isn’t healthy,” she snapped. 

Frannie abandoned her eavesdropping mission. The grandfather clock chimed two o’clock. A record was playing, somewhere, either from downstairs or perhaps the neighbor’s open window. It was hard to tell. It was their song—that much she knew—the one George hummed while they walked around the carnival, the one he referenced at the end of every letter he wrote to her. Here’s a penny serenade just for you

Betsy appeared in the doorway, holding a casserole dish—the fifth one in three days.

“Where did that come from?” Frannie asked, pointing to the dish. “I thought we used up our rations making the pot roast for Helen.” Frannie took pride in stretching the family’s rations and bargaining for ingredients to make casseroles for the recently widowed.

“Mrs. Lindstrom dropped it off. Why don’t you put this in the icebox while I get the car started?” Betsy noticed a crumpled up envelope on the floor. “Who’s the letter from?” 

Frannie kicked the balled up paper out of the way. It was worse than any telegram the Army could have sent. Telegrams were impersonable, just like the military. Soldiers were tracked by a personal number within a numbered division and all it took was a clerk with poor typing skills to be off by one number and report the wrong serial number as Missing In Action or Killed In Action. Frannie leveled her hope in the possibility that the Army could make clerical errors. But a letter—a personal letter from someone she knew—well, that was nearly insufferable.    

“That wretch of a liar, Jimmy Tranor.” She stopped reading his letter after the second paragraph. … for months, I’d watch as George took these out of his pocket and stared at them whenever he could catch a break. You should have them …

She walked over to her bureau. The letter on top of the stack came just last week from George. She fell asleep with George’s letters, breathing in the scent of his soap that lingered on the paper. The small white card and picture that Jimmy had enclosed smelled nothing like George. Instead, they reeked of sweat and gunpowder. It was all the proof she needed that Jimmy was lying about George.

“We’re going to be late,” Betsy reminded her gently. “I’ll meet you outside.” 

It was stifling outside. At the end of the street, Mr. Pemberly was harvesting his Victory garden. He touched the brim of his hat as they drove past. The blue star hanging in his window had changed to gold last year. Brick homes gave way to newer bungalow houses with cars parked in the driveway, gleaming under the bright sun. Betsy turned the car onto Maple Street. A few boys were playing baseball in the empty lot next to McDougall’s Drugstore. The world was ready to return to technicolor, but Frannie couldn’t escape the shades of gray.

“Remember that time I got a bruise on my leg from sliding into third base to prove to Jimmy Tranor that girls could play baseball, too?” Frannie asked.

“Mama signed you up for finishing school before it even had a chance to start healing.”

Frannie smiled. “I wonder what George would say if I showed up today with a bruise on my leg?” she mused, watching the young batter swing too early. The ball landed with a thwump in the catcher’s mitt.

“Frannie, I think we should talk—” 

“That’s the first thing he noticed about me, you know,” Frannie interrupted. She leaned back in her seat, remembering the day she sat on the bleacher next to George during a school basketball game. George had pointed to the bruise and asked her what happened. Frannie felt like an immature bobbysoxer telling the story to him. Her mother was right to sign her up for finishing school. But the more he listened to her account, the bigger his smile grew. When she had finished, George said that Jimmy had it coming and then asked to take her out on a date that weekend.

Outside, the boys’ baseball game moved from the front windshield, to Frannie’s window, to the rear window until it faded from sight altogether. The Packard cruised past the bakery, women lined out the door, ration cards in hand. Frannie sighed. “I suppose I’m too old for such games now.”

A new plum-colored hat in the Emporium window caught her eye. Her hand floated up to the bow in her hair. Frannie frowned. Maybe she should have worn a hat today. After all, she wasn’t the same girl George had kissed goodbye three years ago. No more playing ball games or wearing socks with leather shoes. Now, she wore pumps without stumbling and kept her knees covered when she sat. Without a doubt, she should have chosen to wear a hat instead of the bow today. 

The Emporium doors swung open, and Tilde stepped out onto the sidewalk, pushing a pram. She had taken the train to Texas a few months before Jimmy left for the European theater, and came back married and pregnant.

Tilde bent over the pram, adjusting the blanket inside. Frannie turned her head.

“How long are you going to stay mad at Tilde?” Betsy asked.

“For as long as she stays in love with Jimmy.” 

“You can’t blame him for surviving.” 

Frannie blamed him for more than just surviving. He wouldn’t leave her alone with George’s letters. As long as she had them, the war wasn’t real. At the end of every letter, George drew a penny. Here’s a penny serenade just for you. It brought his humming to life, back to the center of her mind. What Jimmy wrote was cruel. Talking about how George was in the next foxhole over and how sorry he is. One letter took George and their future away from her. Jimmy made the war real.

Blinking back tears, Frannie opened her pocketbook and pulled out the two small items. … You should have them … She stared at the snap taken the night of their first date. The picture was singed along the left side; she covered it up with her thumb. She gently traced a finger along the crease where George folded it to fit in his pocket. It was his favorite picture.

They were supposed to be smiling for the camera, but George turned at the last minute to whisper in her ear, “Why does your hair smell like bananas? Is there something you’re not telling me?” That’s when the photographer took the picture: with George’s face practically buried in Frannie’s curls and her mouth wide open in laughter. 

Frannie picked up the small, white card with the dark red stain. “The fortune teller isn’t wrong. It’s right here—George’s future,” she explained to Betsy, covering up the dried blood with her fingers. 

* * *

At the carnival, George had produced another coin. “My turn.” The machine whirred and the Fortune Teller returned to life. Frannie grabbed the dispensed card from the tray. Her eyebrows furrowed. She turned the card over, her smile slowly fading. 

“You don’t have a future,” she said.

“Say, what are you talking about?”

“It’s blank.”

“No fooling?”

She had held the card up for him to see. Raising an eyebrow, he took the card and flipped it over. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he began to scrawl on the card. Then, reading his newly made future, “I will marry a beautiful, curly haired girl and live a long, happy life.”

He showed Frannie the card: a drawing of two stick figures, one of which had curly hair, holding hands next to a house. On the other side of the house were smaller stick figures, a boy and a girl, and a little dog.

“The genie’s given me the gift to make my own fortune,” George said. “And I chose you.”

* * *

 The Packard turned left at the New Hope Theatre and followed Main Street past all the brick buildings and telephone poles plastered with propaganda and pleas to buy war bonds. They were nearing the outskirts of town. Betsy paused at the stop sign. To the right was the town’s church cemetery. To the left, about a mile down the road, was New Hope Station. 

Frannie put a hand on her sister’s arm. “Wait,” she said. “I just need a moment.”

She closed her eyes. The song started back up again. A radio was playing, somewhere, perhaps from someone’s open window. It was hard to tell. It was their song, that much she knew—the one George hummed while they walked through the maze of rides and carnival barkers calling for their attention.

Betsy turned the car toward the cemetery, where over half the town was gathering for the memorial service. Frannie kept her eyes closed, her mind drifting toward the train station. 

The train is sitting by the platform, humming on the tracks, and Frannie panics at the thought of being late. She scans the train windows for George’s face. Is his blond hair still styled the same as when he left? A flash of uniform catches her eye, and she holds her breath, exhaling with disappointment as a dark-haired pilot exits the train.

She spots George, looking so dapper in his uniform, over by the ticket window. With a large army-issued bag flung over his shoulder, he cordially shakes hands with a man and his wife welcoming him home.

“There he is!” Frannie cries. “Oh, would you look at all those ribbons on his uniform! He must have been so brave.”

She walks toward him. Placing one foot smoothly in front of the other, she watches his gaze land on her polished pumps and travel up her stockinged legs until his eyes meet hers. Grinning from ear to ear, he drops his bag. Her stride remains calm and even. She can hear him above everything else—the barking orders of the conductor, the rumbling of the train engine, and the chatter of families still lingering on the platform. It all fades away until the only sound that reaches her ears is his voice humming their song, serenading her, giving her the strength to carry her forward until she feels his arms around her. 

Then, and only then, does she finally smile.

About the author

Katie Roxberry has been previously published in The Dragon Tempest: Tales of Fantasy & Adventure and Through the Years: A Collection of Written Works from the Shreveport Writer’s Club. She holds a bachelor’s degree in History and English. Her love of the 1940s stems from spending time with her grandparents and listening to their stories. 

About the illustration

The illustration is "New Hope Train Station 1945", 1945, photograph by an unknown photographer. In the collection of the New Hope Historical Society. In the public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.