“I haven’t quite decided,” Frank said. “I have an interest in a great many things—so many that it can be hard to pin myself down. I’ve always liked publishing, and the breeding of fancy poultry, and, of course, the theater…and…” Frank was meandering through this speech in a way that Maud found quite charming, but she could see the corners of her mother’s mouth drawing in.
Frank and Maud were still nursing a plan to return to the theater, only without ready cash to mount another production, they’d had to leave the exact date up in the air. All of the assets of the company were stored in the Baum Theatre—the sets, the scripts, the costumes—but the theater itself was shuttered for now and was unlikely to open again. Frank’s father had built it during the oil boom, when men with money in their pockets had crowded the town of Richburg, New York. Once those heady days passed, there weren’t enough townspeople left to support a theater. Nowadays it was serving only as a warehouse for their deferred dreams.
In truth, it was clear that Frank needed to find another line of work to sustain them, at least for now. Loyally, Maud believed that he would be successful in whatever he tried, but she also did her best to steer him in a practical direction.
She laid a hand on Frank’s arm, gave him an encouraging smile, and then interrupted him: “Frank is taking up the family enterprise. The Baum family oil business. He is working with his elder brother Benjamin.”
Matilda smiled approvingly. “Wonderful! I had hoped you’d soon tire of that acting business. This sounds like an excellent prospect.”
“Baum’s Castorine,” Frank said affably. “A perfect greaser for buggies, wagons, carts…”
“Sounds perfectly sensible,” Matilda said. “Everyone needs axle grease. My husband always said that it’s wise to center your business around things that people can’t do without.”
“Of course, we’re not finished with the theater,” Frank said. “As soon as we can get up another company, we plan to take it back on the road.”
* * *
—
MAUD WAS IN THE KITCHEN, chopping carrots, when she heard Frank at the piano, plinking out a sprightly melody. She had sent him to put Bunting down for his nap a few minutes ago. Was he going to put the baby to bed only to wake him up again?
“Baby Bunting, pudding pie, take a flight, across the sky…” Frank’s light tenor floated through the kitchen door.
Maud peeked out into the parlor and saw that Frank was holding the baby with one arm and using Bunting’s feet to tap out the melody with the other.
“Frank!” Maud laughed at the comical sight.
“I’m teaching him to play piano—and sing!” Frank said. “Listen!”
Maud glanced at the clock. “He’s supposed to be napping! Please don’t get him too excited—he’ll never want to fall asleep.”
“I asked him if he wanted to sleep and he said no—didn’t you, Bunting?” Frank tickled the boy’s cheek, making him giggle. “He said he wanted to dance. He’s helping me write a song.” Frank again started tapping out a melody with Bunting’s feet, and the baby, obviously delighted, cooed along with the music, which Frank was clearly improvising as he went along.
“Little boy beauty, soldier, clown. Turn the baby—UPSIDE DOWN!” Frank did exactly that, which only made Bunting giggle louder.
“Frank!”
“He likes it!”
Maud reached out her arms. “You go ahead and write your song. I’ll put Bunting to bed.”
“You’re not cross, are you? It’s just that I’ve had a spark of inspiration, and I want to get it down. Before I lose it. Sometimes a tune worms its way into my ear and then crawls right out the other side…”
“I’m not cross,” Maud said. “I just want the baby to get some rest.” She frowned without meaning to.
“I’m sorry, darling—I feel like I have so little time now. I’m trying to get this new play written, and it’s hard to do it when I’m traveling all the time. I try to come up with words, and all that comes out is ‘Baum’s Castorine, best buggy grease you’ve ever seen…’?” He looked dejected.
Maud was patting Bunting on the back and rocking him, and his eyes were already drifting shut.
Frank tapped out a few notes and the baby’s eyes flew wide open, then scrunched up as his mouth opened wide and he started to wail.
“Can you just not play right this minute, Frank? Maybe after his nap?”
Frank looked as if he was about to protest, but then his shoulders slumped a little. “Of course, darling.”
As Maud carried the baby upstairs, she realized that they’d been having these kinds of exchanges more often. She knew full well that Frank was still pining for the theater. He scribbled new play notes, sketched out sets, and noodled new songs on the piano whenever he had a free moment. The bright notes filled their house, and then Frank, a pencil in hand, muttered to himself while he paced across the living room.
But most of the time, his hours were taken up by business. Throughout the winter, Frank traveled across the depth and breadth of New York State. In the morning, as he buttoned his frock coat and waxed his moustache, she could see in his eyes the look of a chained-up dog that whimpered when you passed. After a long sales trip, it always took a day or two before he brightened; but always, soon enough, the house would fill up with his lightheartedness—he was always whistling a tune or glancing up from a pad of paper with an amused expression on his face. At the end of each week, Maud looked over the household accounts and tried to set a bit aside for Frank’s theater projects, though at the rate their meager savings were accumulating, she knew it would take years, not months, for them to save up enough to put up a new production—and what would they live on even if he could manage to debut a new play? Frank’s wages paid their bills. The Baum Theatre Company had never been more than a break-even operation, started with an infusion of capital from his then-flush father.
For her own part, Maud had grown absorbed in her new life, full of caring for the baby, visits with family, and reading in the evenings. During the lonely spells when Frank was traveling, she had even returned to her childhood hobbies of fine embroidery and tatting lace, skills learned from her father’s mother. She was proud of the beautiful gifts she made. As the months passed, Maud began to notice that Frank, too, seemed less preoccupied with the theater. The piano in the parlor fell silent. In the evenings, he read the newspaper or chatted about his sales trips. Maud started to hope that he’d made peace with his new life, as she had. They had lived their adventure, hadn’t they? Which was more than most people ever did, and as Maud had learned at her father’s knee, when the numbers didn’t add up, wishing and hoping wouldn’t change anything, so you might as well be content with what you had. And who was to say that sometime in the future there wouldn’t be more adventures in store for them? After all, they were still young.
“Let me hear one of your songs,” Maud said one Saturday afternoon when she and Frank were sitting in the parlor, with Bunting sprawled on the rug near the hearth, amusing himself with blocks. “I never hear you singing anymore.”
Normally, Frank was quick to take a seat at the piano, but now he gazed at her balefully. “Not today, Maudie dear.”
“Why not today?” Maud said. “I miss hearing you play. The house seems so quiet. Don’t you need to work on your play?”
Frank’s gray eyes turned stormy; he stood up—so suddenly that his chair’s legs scraped on the parlor floor—and crossed to the window, where he paced in place, rubbing his hands together.
Maud looked at her husband with surprise. Why had her simple request for him to play music upset him so? Sometimes this business of marriage still confused her. He had never reacted this way before.
Frank whirled around, facing Maud. “You don’t understand, do you?”
Maud gazed at him, bewildered.
“To you, it’s just music…”
“Frank dear, what ever are you talking about? I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. I just thought it would be nice to hear you play.”
“See…” Frank said, now pacing across the parlor. “That’s not how it is. I’m not playing the piano just for fun. When I’m writing songs and lyrics, I want them to have some purpose—to be part of a play. I want that play to be real—not just spinning around in my mind, but actually created, staged, out in front of people. Lights, applause.”
“But, dear, I know,” Maud said.
“You don’t know!” Frank said, his voice now growing louder. “You don’t know how I feel.”
“But, Frank—”
Maud stood up and walked toward him, but as she tried to put her hand on his arm, he jerked it away.
“You know, Maud, I try,” Frank said.
“I know you try. You work so hard—”