“His first name was Lyman, but he always went by Frank. He was a very good man.” Maud paused, smoothing her cotton napkin in her lap, trying to think of how to convey the essence of Frank to this young girl. “When I first met him, he was an actor in a theater company.”
Maud noticed a glimmer of interest. “My father’s real name was Francis, but he always went by Frank,” Judy said. “He was in vaudeville. He’s the one who taught me how to sing.” A pained look washed across the girl’s face and then retreated as fast as a foam-crested wave on Santa Monica Beach.
“That must have been lovely,” Maud said.
“Well, it was lovely…when he was still around.” Judy trailed off and looked searchingly at Maud. “My father is dead.”
“Oh,” Maud said, reaching out and placing her hand over Judy’s. “I’m so sorry.”
The girl’s expression closed up, but Maud suspected that she wanted to talk about him, so she persisted. “I’ve told you about my Frank—can you tell me about yours? What was he like?”
For a moment, Judy’s brown eyes seemed to be looking inward, but then she brightened. “My daddy loved to sing—and he had a terrific sense of humor. He wasn’t like most stuffy old grown-ups. He could make some fun out of anything. He used to write the grocery list in rhyme, and make up a tune to go with it, and then, if he forgot what we needed, he’d sing it right there in the store.” Judy giggled and dropped her voice. “Once a mean old lady with blue hair told him to stop singing because we were in a public place. I was so embarrassed I wanted to fall through the floor, but he just smiled, and said, ‘May I have the pleasure?’ and before long she was dancing right there among the canned peas.”
“What a delightful man. You must miss him very much.”
Judy took a sip of water and looked away.
“I know I miss my Frank, and he sounds just like your father. He was always making things up and making people laugh.”
“When did Mr. Baum die? Was it a long time ago?” Judy looked back at Maud, her brown eyes damp.
“Oh yes, my dear, Frank has been gone for almost twenty years. I certainly never expected to live so much longer than he did, but life never seems to go as one expects, does it?”
“Do you think it was magic that brought the coat back?”
The girl was staring at the tablecloth, her brow furrowed in concentration, as if a lot was riding on Maud’s reply.
“Well, I don’t really know,” Maud said. “What we deem magical depends a lot on our own point of view.”
Judy said nothing, didn’t even look up, just picked at a tiny speck on the tablecloth.
“When did you lose your father?” Maud asked.
“When I was thirteen. But I still miss him all the time. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Sometimes I try to talk to him. I suppose that makes me crazy.”
“Oh my dear, no. That most certainly doesn’t make you crazy. By the time you reach my age, you’ve lost all kinds of important people, and talking to those who are gone comes to seem quite in the ordinary course of things. What is it that you want to talk to him about?”
Judy fiddled with her fork, turning the tines down and raking them lightly across the cloth.
“I keep wishing…” She looked up. “I really can’t tell you. It’s, well, it’s kind of a secret…”
“The kind of secret you can’t share with anyone or the kind that might feel a little better if you had someone to share it with?”
“I’m not sure I know. How would I know if it’s better to keep it to myself or to share?”
“I suppose it depends how heavy it feels. If it feels very heavy, sometimes sharing it can lighten the load.”
Judy rubbed her right shoulder and frowned. “Well, it is very heavy…”
“Then why don’t you tell me?”
“Because, I’m afraid I’ll sound silly…or maybe—” Judy broke off. She rubbed her palm against her forearm, her eyes downcast. “Maybe I’m afraid that if I say it out loud, it will seem more likely never to happen.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Maud said firmly. “I’ve accepted many secrets for safekeeping over the years, and I’m a most unmagical person. I think I can hold on to secrets without affecting them in the slightest.”
“Well, all right,” Judy said. “What I wish is…” She laced her fingers together, turning her palms upward.
“I wish he would give me…some kind of sign.” Judy stared down at the crumbs on her plate.
Maud chose her words carefully.
“My husband believed very deeply in signs, and messages coming from other worlds, and all kinds of mystical and spiritual things.”
“But was your husband’s coat—a sign?” Judy asked.
“I think,” Maud said, “that when people imagine things, such as Oz, those things take on their own life, and something seems to happen, and those things seem to have meaning…” If Frank were here, he would have said, Of course it’s a sign! To him, the work of serendipity was at play all around them, never questioned, always believed in. But as much as she’d loved Frank, Maud had remained a shopkeeper’s daughter, firmly anchored in the palpable things of this earth—things that could be observed and touched, measured and weighed.
Judy’s voice trembled. “I was in the studio,” she said. “I was singing on the NBC radio show, and my mother told me it was my big break and I couldn’t miss it for anything. They turned on the radio for him in his hospital room, so that he could hear me singing, and I sang it for him…”
“Oh my dear child!”
“But I don’t know if he heard me,” she said. “What if he was asleep or, I don’t know, too sick to listen? It was the only thing I could give him, so I tried to sing it as well as I could. I thought it would help him get better. But he died before I ever got to ask him. The next day he was gone. And I keep hoping and wishing and praying that he’ll give me some kind of sign, just so I’ll know that he was listening. But all I hear is silence…”
Maud struggled to think of what she might say to console the girl, but death was hard, and sometimes no words could truly provide consolation. Instead, she reached out her hand again to clasp Judy’s.
“And your mother?”
The girl’s lower lip quivered. “Mother says being a star will make me happy—and of course she’s right—”
“A star,” Maud said.
“Even though I’m not glamorous…”
“Let me tell you something about stars. I once lived in Dakota, where the stars shone like bright diamonds, so close you truly believed you could reach up and pluck one from the sky. Some people are just born like that, glowing so bright. My Frank was. I don’t believe that’s something you can become. You’re either born that way—or you’re not. Just be yourself, Judy. I promise you that what you already are is good enough.”
Judy wiped her mouth with her napkin, leaving a smear of bright red on the cloth. Her brown eyes glowed like wet stones in a clear stream. “You know what? That’s exactly what my daddy told me. Mother always says, ‘Work harder, give ’em what they want. You’re going to be a star someday,’ but Daddy always said, ‘Judy’s not going to be a star. She already is.’?”
Just then, Maud saw the waiter approaching. She deftly switched their plates so that Judy’s empty plate was in front of her and Maud’s half-eaten salad rested in front of the girl.
“Dessert?” he asked.
“Black coffee,” Judy said.
“Chocolate cake and a glass of milk for me,” Maud said. As he retreated, she leaned toward Judy. “Hope you like chocolate cake,” she whispered.
The presence of a fat slice of cake and a tall glass of milk turned the mood cheerful. Maud gave the girl a moment to let her get a head start on her cake.
“Can I ask you a question?” Judy asked through a mouthful.
“Of course! Ask me anything.”
“Who was Dorothy? Was she your daughter?”
The question startled Maud, but she tried to keep her face composed. A vision of unkempt braids and faded gingham flashed before her eyes.
“No,” she said, her voice tight.
Maud noticed that the clinking of silverware and glasses seemed to have stopped, and the murmur of conversation lulled. She looked up to see Clark Gable, dapper in a hound’s-tooth jacket and black silk cravat, making his way across the crowded dining room, weaving among the tables with the occasional wave of his hand or nod of his head.
Maud leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “He’s just as good-looking in person. Maybe even better!”
Judy washed down the last trace of her cake with the dregs of her milk, then wiped her face with the back of her hand.
“He’s dreamy,” she said.
“I’ve always been partial to a man with a moustache,” Maud said. “But make no mistake, he’s much too old for you!”
Clark Gable was about halfway across the commissary now, and as he reached their secluded corner, he popped his head behind the potted plant, winked at Judy, and gave a jaunty half salute to Maud before continuing on his way.
“I wish he were playing the Wizard,” Maud said.