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 mother's hands working it up into a lather.
'Did your father say what the plans were?' her mother asked.
'No. Are you gonna tell me?' Frances asked.
'Well. You won't be starting school for a while yet. So I thought we could drive you into Los Angeles from time to time for special lessons.'
'Singing and dancing?' asked Frances, her eyes screwed shut. She kicked her legs to show that she was pleased.
She had done the right thing. Her mother laughed. 'Singing, dancing, anything you like, Baby.' Rubbing the lather and the hair together.
'Is that why you were in Los Angeles today?' Frances asked.
The hands stopped.
'Yes,' said her mother, not sounding pleased any longer.
'Oh, boy. That's going to be fun,' said Frances, to make her happy again. But her mother said nothing else. They had lived in Los Angeles for a while. Frances remembered it, as if in a dream, a little low brown house with red tiles on top. 'It's Spanish,' her father had said, trying to make them happy. But Mama hadn't liked it. Maybe her mama didn't like Los Angeles.
The hands began to work again. Afterward there would be the big woolly towel and running cool and naked into the bedroom to dress.
Downstairs the piano began to play, and her sisters to sing. Eyes shut, lather slipping down her face, Frances began to breathe out the words with them.
You didn't eat in show clothes, of course. You got to wear a soft white shirt and shorts. Frances hopped down the stairs. She went gerump, like a frog.
'Daddy,' she said at the bottom of the stairs. 'I'm a frog, Daddy.'
'Good Lord, Ethel. Do you see? There's a frog in the living room.'
Ethel Gumm was following her daughter down the steps.
'Well, it must be feeling good because it's just had a nice cool swim,' said Frances's mother. She smiled at her child and then walked on, toward the kitchen,
'A wet little frog,' said Jinny, and began to thump a bit harder on the piano.
Nobody can be louder than me, thought Frances.
'Gerump!' she shouted, hopping. 'Gerump! Gerump!'
'Frances,' said Jinny, a warning rising in her voice, 'I'm trying to practice.'
'Let's see how high the frog can jump,' her daddy said. He bent over and picked her up.
'Bounce,' he said and let her feet touch the ground and swooped her up again. 'Bouncy… bouncy… bouncy!'
Each bounce was higher. Frances was bounced across the hallway, out of the living room and into the dining room. Her father picked her up, as high as he could, all the way up to the ceiling.
'It's a flying frog!' he exclaimed.
'Don't!' giggled Frances. 'No.'
Janie came in, carrying plates. She looked tired, circles under her eyes, tired and unhappy, and she took no notice of either of them.
'I'm flying, Janie!' called Frances. Janie turned and gave her a flicker of a worn, dim smile and then went back into the kitchen.
Grandmother Milne came out, carrying a vegetable dish. 'Don't make the child giddy before dinner,' Grandma said.
Frances was lowered to the floor. Sssssh, Daddy went with his finger on his lips to show they should both be quiet.
Ssssssh, went Frances back.
'Are you going to show me your ballet steps?' he whispered.
