All the Way Home (11 page)

She knew time was going and finding Brick would be almost impossible. Loretta’s words:
“Only one bobby pin in the whole house to hold on my cap. It’ll be like finding a needle in a haystack.”

For another moment she stood there.
“You can do anything.”

She took the two-dollar bill with its gold seal out of the broken frame. She closed her eyes, touching it.

She reached for a pencil and a piece of paper on the table.

Dear Loretta. I’ve gone to find my mother. I have the two dollars. Brick and I will take the bus. I love you. Mariel
.

She stood there for another minute thinking about Loretta. Loretta’s hot temper. She picked up the pencil.
P.S. Throw a pot in the sink, but don’t be angry with me!

What else did she need? She pulled out cookies and peaches, slapped together two sandwiches, and dumped them on the table.

In her bedroom, she put on her straw hat with the daisies, snapping the elastic band under her chin, and pulled a sweater out of the drawer. She folded the money into her patent leather pocketbook, hurrying, going faster than she ever thought she was able to, and went back into the kitchen to stuff everything on the table into a bag with her sweater, and Claude’s book wrapped in waxed paper. She pulled her umbrella from the stairs in the hall. She was ready.

She walked down the stairs, stepping on killer vines
all the way. Outside someone was listening to
Lorenzo Jones
on the radio. She stood there, trying to think, trying to plan.

It would take Billy Nightingale a long time to cross the bridge into Manhattan. It would take her forever. But somehow she had to be at the end of that bridge waiting for him as he crossed.

18

O
utside she pulled open the green-striped umbrella and started down Midwood Street. Suddenly she knew how she could catch up with Brick. The church bells tolled at six o’clock, and if she was at Jordan’s candy store by then, everything might work out.
Might
, she told herself, crossing her fingers.

It all depended on Daisy, the ragman’s horse.

Mariel turned the corner and stopped at Jordan’s window, twirling her umbrella, looking at his display. Faded red, white, and blue crepe paper was bunched up around the edges of the glass; dead flies were scattered here and there. In the center was a shiny picture of Mr. Jordan himself in his army uniform from the Great War. Jordan was young in the picture, he had lots of dark curly hair,
and best of all, he was shaking hands with President Wilson. Mariel could understand why he wanted that picture there, why he was so proud of it. She thought about the picture of President Roosevelt in his cape that Loretta had cut out of the newspaper for her, and Geraldine Ginty, hands on her hips.
“You’re a liar, Mariel. There’s no such thing as a President who can’t walk.”

The six o’clock bells began to ring. Mariel looked up the street as a car went by and then another. Where was Benny? She leaned her head against the wet store window. Suppose he didn’t come?

“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”
was what the President would say.

Inside, Jordan tapped on his counter with the edge of his ring. “Hey, Mariel, want to break the window?” He shook his head. “It’s pouring rain. You kids are crazy.”

She had always wanted to tell Jordan about President Roosevelt, but now wasn’t the time. He looked hot and irritable. “Sorry,” she said, and went to the edge of the sidewalk.

She leaned against the telephone pole, her package under one arm, holding the umbrella over her head with the other. After a while, the bell tolled again, once this time. It was six-thirty. What would she do if Benny didn’t come?

She was about to give up when she heard Daisy’s bells and Benny’s voice. “Old rags, we buy, we sell.”

Thank you, Daisy
, she thought.

Benny pulled up in front of the candy store, his hat streaming rain. Jordan was at the window again, tapping with his ring, motioning to Mariel. “Want a sugar cube for the horse?” he asked. “Want one for yourself?”

She knew he was telling her he felt bad about the window business, so she smiled and put her package down. He reached around the door and handed them to her. “Good girl,” he said.

Benny sat back as she held her hand out flat with both sugar cubes for Daisy to nuzzle. “It’s the princess all dressed up,” Benny said. “On your way to a party in the rain?”

“I need a favor, Benny,” she said, looking at Daisy, afraid to look up, afraid he’d say no.

“Want an old rag? Want a dozen?”

“A ride, please.”

“I’m not going very far,” he said, grinning. “No castles on my route.” He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.

“I need to go to Manhattan.”

His eyes widened. “That’s far enough. What are you going to do there? Not running away, are you?” She saw him look down at her legs, biting his lip, sorry he had said that.

She picked up the bag. “I have to get this to a friend on Canal Street,” she said, “but Loretta has to work.”

All true, every bit of it.

He shook his head. “After Manhattan, I have to go to the Bronx. I’m doing extra time, extra money for my
girl Gracie’s birthday present.” He hesitated. “That’s a long way. Are you sure Loretta wouldn’t mind?”

Mariel smiled. “Loretta says I can do anything. Besides …” She pulled at the elastic under her chin. “I don’t need to come back. My friend …” She let her voice trail off, let him think she had a ride.

“All right then,” he said. “I could drop you near the bridge. Know where that is?”

“Sure.” She had never seen anything more than the top of it poked up when she went shopping with Loretta.

Benny held out his hand, fingers hard, palms callused, and pulled her up next to him. They began to move, the old clothes shifting in back of them, the sleigh bells jingling, and Daisy trotting along in the puddles.

Mariel wondered if she’d really find Brick. Was she making a mistake going to the far end of the bridge? Should she wait on the Brooklyn side instead? She thought about it. It was a long bridge, she remembered that. If Brick started across before she got there, she’d miss him. She hated to think about that, waiting at the bridge all night, never seeing him, wondering what to do.

She closed her eyes and listened to Benny click his tongue against his teeth to spur Daisy on. He began to sing then, “Daisy, Daisy, I’m half crazy, all for the love of you …”

After a minute, she began to hum with him. Daisy went faster now, and they turned down a cobblestone
street with the wagon rocking from side to side. “Daisy moves right along when she thinks she’s going home,” Benny said. “She has her own way of getting to the bridge.”

Mariel nodded, holding on to the seat with both hands. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she found Brick? Wouldn’t he be surprised?

19

H
e had found it. After circling blocks, going past the same vegetable store more than once, he glanced up to see the sign in front of him.
FLATBUSH AVENUE
!

He looked down at the paper:
Take Flatbush Avenue all the way to the bridge and cross into Manhattan
.

Easy directions, a long walk in the pouring rain. At first he jogged along the street, not minding it. He even stopped for a moment to watch the cars. He had seen more cars in the last few days than he had in his whole life: Model A Fords, and even a Packard or two.

He’d tell Claude all about them when he got there. He felt a quick stab of pain in his chest. Mariel had to be wrong about how long it would take. If only she were wrong! Giant buildings appeared in the distance,
hazy against the clouds, the buildings of Manhattan, he was sure. But after walking blocks, they didn’t seem closer.

He began to listen to the sound of his footsteps. The wet sidewalk was so much harder than the packed dirt of the Windy Hill road. He couldn’t stop thinking of the cement against his feet. His sock kept pulling down inside his right shoe, rubbing against the skin of his heel. He was going to have a blister soon, and how could he walk all those miles with a sore foot?

He stopped in front of a barber shop, closed now, and slid down against the slippery red-and-white pole. He took off his shoes and tied them together to hang around his neck, then rolled up his socks, one for each shoe.

The street in front of him was filthy with torn-up papers, broken bottles, even a squashed box that some kids had made into a house for themselves, everything sopping wet. He’d have to be careful not to step on something sharp.

He stood up then, thinking to reach down for Claude’s book, but it wasn’t there.

Claude’s book gone?

He sank down again, hunched over, his head bent. What had happened to it? Where had he had it last? He remembered having it in the park, sitting under that bushy little tree. He reached into his pocket to feel the softness of the leaf. How could he ever tell Claude?

“Something the matter?” A woman stood in front of
him, her hair tied up in a babushka, her face lined. She held a newspaper over her head for an umbrella.

He shook his head. “Just …,” he began, rubbing his chest, feeling the pain of losing the book.

“Too much candy,” she said, making a shhh-shhh sound with her tongue. “Too much to eat. It will go away.”

He nodded, then stood up with his shoes over his shoulder and moved away from her. How far to the bridge? Too far. Too many blocks barefooted. Not a cent in his pocket. No food. Certainly no food today, not until he got into the country and there’d be fruit on the trees and fields of vegetables. How long? He needed the taste of water in his mouth, on his tongue, in his throat. An orange soda, a root beer, cold and frosty. He held up his face, his mouth open to catch the drops of water.

Feeling sorry for himself, that was what it was. What would Pop say? He straightened up, walking on the outside edges of the soles of his feet. He could turn around, ask anyone where the nearest station house was, ask for Ambrose the cop, and he’d be back in the house on Midwood Street in time for supper.