Crusader (20 page)

Mr. Herman finally picked up on my state of mind. He asked, "Roberta, are you all right?"

I managed to say, "I'm sorry, Mr. Herman. I have something that I need to think about."

"Of course." He let me ride in silence the rest of the way.

I got off the field-trip bus just in time to catch my regular bus. Then I went home and did something I had not done in years. Probably in seven years. I cried. I sat on the couch in the living room, clutching a pillow, and cried for about thirty minutes. They say that's supposed to make you feel better, but it didn't work for me. I felt sick inside, like I had eaten poisoned food.

It was time for me to start walking to the mall, but I couldn't. I could barely move. I didn't know what to do. Dad
sometimes calls Uncle Frank and lies to him, saying he is too sick to go in. I figured I could try that, too.

I called him and, I must admit, I really sounded sick. "Uncle Frank, it's Roberta. I'm not feeling well."

"You don't sound well, Roberta."

I lied to him easily. "I think I had better take the night off."

"Absolutely. Do you need us to come over? To bring you anything? Do you need to go to the doctor?"

"No. No. Nothing like that. I'm just really worn-out and feeling under the weather. Dad can take care of me if I get worse."

"He's there?"

"Yes."

"I thought I just saw him up by the office."

"He's been in and out, taking care of me."

"Okay. Take as much time as you need."

"Okay." I was about to hang up when Karl picked up the phone at the front. He said, "You sick, cuz?"

"Yeah."

"Kristin is, too."

"Oh yeah?"

There was a long pause, like Karl had forgotten I was there. But then he said, "Hey, some guy from Antioch keeps calling for my dad, but my dad said he's not here. What do I do?"

"Act like you're crazy."

"Okay."

Karl hung up, and I just sat there, unmoving. I sat for hours, trying to get back to this morning, to the time before I had seen that stain. The phone rang at 8:30. It rang again at 8:35, and again at 8:40. I finally picked it up and heard Mrs. Weiss's voice say, "I asked your uncle where you were. He said you were sick."

"Yes, Mrs. Weiss. But I'm feeling better now."

"You should stay with me tonight. You can't be by yourself if you're sick."

"My dad is here."

"Oh? Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Put him on."

"I—I didn't mean right now. He will be here."

"Pack an overnight bag. I'll come pick you up after I close."

"I don't know, Mrs. Weiss—"

"Roberta, I don't want you alone when you're sick. You need to be over here."

I didn't know what else to say, so I said, "Okay."

"I'll be there at about nine-fifteen."

"No. No, don't come here. I want to walk. I need to walk."

"Nobody needs to walk. Not down here. It's too dangerous."

"But I really need the air."

"Fine, then, walk. Pack a bag and start walking now, though, before it gets any later."

"I will." Mrs. Weiss hung up, and I set about gathering what I needed for tonight and tomorrow. I put it all into a plastic supermarket bag and started off. I walked west down Everglades Boulevard into the last light of the day. Night had fallen before I even remembered the video vault. It had slipped clean out of my mind, the way Mrs. Knight had slipped out of the studio lobby today, without me noticing. And, like Mrs. Knight, it suddenly returned. I continued to walk quickly, with a purpose, but the image was back in my mind. It would not be denied. The image of a discolored sidewalk in the rain sickened me all over again.

I stopped at the Route 27 intersection, standing still, with my head drooping down. I listened to the dangerous whir of the traffic just two feet away. It was a terrifying chaotic sound. I sensed when the light changed, and I started to cross. Then I
sensed movement, a menacing white blur to my left. A white station wagon turned onto Route 27, and I was right in its path. I stopped and looked at it, waiting for it to hit me. The woman behind the wheel reacted frantically, slamming on the brakes, her headlights stopping just inches from my knees. The woman threw both hands outward, bugged her eyes at me, and screamed out the window, "What's wrong with you? Are you crazy?"

I met her stare and held it, then I screamed back, "You have no idea what's wrong with me!" The woman rolled her window up and looked away. I continued across the highway.

Most people do not walk to Century Towers, they drive. Pedestrians have to walk up to the guard booth, tell the guard their name, and say who they're visiting. The guard on duty tonight was an old guy with a name tag that said
GEORGE.

I stood outside the open window of the guardhouse until George finally acknowledged me. "Are you here to visit somebody?"

"Mrs. Weiss, in three-oh-three."

"Who?"

I repeated, "Mrs. Weiss, in three-oh-three," and he buzzed up to Mrs. Weiss's. I added, "Tell her it's Roberta."

"Who?" he snapped at me again, like I wasn't speaking loud enough to suit him. I thought,
He would never talk like that to a grown-up.
I repeated, "Roberta."

"Roberta what?"

I heard Mrs. Weiss's voice shriek at him through the speaker, "Your job is to tell me that it's Roberta, you lunkhead. If I want to know more about her name, I will instruct you to ask. Let her up this instant."

George bristled, but he didn't say anything else. He pointed toward Building 1, the only building there was, and I walked the twenty yards to the outside elevator. I rode up to the thirdfloor landing. The elevator opened onto an outdoor walkway with a red railing. From this height, I could see the land that had been cleared for Buildings 2 and 3 ten years ago. It had long since been overrun by weeds and palmetto grass.

Mrs. Weiss opened her door right before I got there. "Roberta, dear, are you all right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Weiss."

"I shouldn't have let you walk here."

"I didn't have any trouble."

"Only with that Nazi downstairs."

"Right."

"Come on, get in here. You're letting the air-conditioning out." She stood back to let me enter.

All Century Towers condos are set up the same way: You enter through the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen is the living room, and beyond that, the balcony. The bedrooms and bathroom are off to the right.

Mrs. Roman was in the living room, watching TV. I said, "Hi, Mrs. Roman."

"Roberta, darling. You're sick? You don't eat right."

"I'm feeling better. What are you watching?"

"Me? Nothing." She pointed over my shoulder at Mrs. Weiss. "She watches these nature shows. She watches to learn about fish. When I watch a show about fish, it's a cooking show."

Mrs. Weiss guided me to the couch. She sat next to me and took hold of my hand. "I watch to learn about life. What else is there that's worth learning about?"

Mrs. Roman winked at me. "Fine. But fish? Salmon?"

The fish show ended, and a show called
The World at War
came on. I concentrated on it, trying to block out the images from the video vault. The screen showed a man in a hall, making a speech. It sounded like German.

Mrs. Weiss perked up. "Look, Roberta. It's Hitler! This is why I watch the nature shows ... Watch this now. This is man's way, right here. These Nazis passed laws making it a crime to be a Jew. Not to kill a Jew, mind you, but to
be
a Jew. So much for man's laws. Nature's laws alone are real."

Mrs. Roman commented, "Isabel loves to watch these war movies, too."

Mrs. Weiss corrected her, as if she'd had to before, "These aren't movies. This is real."

A few minutes later some grainy black-and-white footage came on, and Mrs. Weiss's comforting grip suddenly turned into a tight fist. She whispered, "Maybe you shouldn't look at this part," almost as if she were talking to herself. Anyway, I looked at it. About twenty naked men came running out of a wooden shack. They lined themselves up along the side of a ditch. Then a line of machine-gunners opened fire and killed them all. The men fell into the open ditch. Then another line of naked men came running out, and the same thing happened. My mouth must have dropped open. I had come here to get away from a horrible video, and I had found another one.

Mrs. Roman must have seen my expression. She yelled to Mrs. Weiss, "Look now. You're upsetting the girl. She shouldn't be watching this!"

I said, "Who are those men?"

"They're Jews. From a Nazi concentration camp. The Nazis made them dig their own grave and line up beside it, then they shot them. The camp commander made home movies of it. Nice, huh?"

Mrs. Roman protested, "Nobody should be watching this, Isabel. It's too horrible."

But Mrs. Weiss disagreed. "No, I think she should see this." She looked at me intently. "This is not ancient history, Roberta.
This happened just a few years ago. Just a moment ago in time. This happened to my family."

Mrs. Roman left when the show ended. Mrs. Weiss and I got glasses of iced tea and moved out to the balcony. I stood next to her and looked out over the darkness. After a few minutes I asked, "How can people possibly do that? How can they kill someone and go on living themselves?"

"Are you talking about the Nazis?"

I wasn't, but I answered, "Yes."

"People have been killing each other for thousands of years. There are people, lots of them, who feel nothing about taking another life. When I was your age, Roberta, the entire world was at war. Everybody was trying to kill everybody else."

We each sat in a folding chair and looked out over the sawgrass.

I said, "That was World War Two?"

"That was World War Two."

"I asked Archie if we were going to cover World War Two in history. We're not."

"Archie? Is that a teacher?"

"He's my history teacher. And he's a football coach."

"Bah. They don't teach you history. Believe me, I know. They teach you social studies. I taught it myself."

I didn't know that. I said, "Really?"

"Yes. I taught for twenty years, up in Nassau County, New York." Mrs. Weiss thought for a moment. Then she asked me, "So tell me, what have you learned from all your years of public school social studies? Never mind, let me guess: that Indian Squanto helped the Pilgrims to plant corn. Am I right?"

"Yeah. He told them to plant a little dead fish with each kernel."

"I knew it. You'll never learn any history in that place. What
did you learn about World War Two? Let me guess: that Hitler and the Nazis were bad, and that the Americans were good?"

"Yes."

In the near-darkness, Mrs. Weiss became very animated. "Hitler the Boogie Man?" She began thrusting her arm straight out and retracting it, over and over, like the pinheads' Nazi salute: "Bad Hitler! Bad Hitler!"

I had to laugh. But I
was
puzzled. I asked her, "He
was
bad, wasn't he?"

"Of course. He was evil. So what? Lots of people are."

"So how did he get all those people to follow him?"

"Because he had a vision. He had a dark vision of who he could be. And he pursued that vision with all his might. He pursued it until he made it come true."

Mrs. Weiss got up with her empty glass. She took my glass, too, and went inside. She returned with a tube of Ritz crackers. She set down two saucers and laid some crackers out for us to share. Then she said, "So what else did you learn about the war in your history class?"

"That we won?"

"Okay. That's true enough. Who was our leader?"

"Roosevelt?"

"Which one?"

"Franklin?"

"Good guess. Did you know that he pretended, until his dying day, that he could walk? Whereas in fact he couldn't, because he had polio."

"Come on. Nobody knew he couldn't walk?"

"Nope. His sons were always standing next to him, propping him up."

"That's pretty weird, Mrs. Weiss."

"Sure it is. History is weird when you get past that Indian Squanto stuff they feed you. History doesn't smell very good,
Roberta. History stinks. And United States history stinks right along with it. You know what they ought to put in that textbook of yours? You know those perfume strips that they put in the magazines, where you tear it off and smell it? They ought to put a strip in that book, so you could tear it off and smell all the rotting corpses. Then maybe you'd remember some history."

Mrs. Weiss gathered up the crackers. "That's enough for tonight. It's late, and you have school. You have to go learn lots of new history tomorrow. Anyway, the Nazi Holocaust is old news now. There have been so many holocausts since then. They don't even make the front page anymore. They're on page six."

We walked into the kitchen and put our saucers in the sink. Mrs. Weiss opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to me. "Listen, Century Towers has very strict rules about children. If you're going to stay over here regularly, you have to get your father's permission. It's a liability waiver. Have him sign it."

I slid the paper into my backpack. "Okay, I will."

This afternoon, at the beginning of Mr. Herman's lecture, a boy walked into class holding a green guidance department form. I knew what that meant right away. Someone was being called down to Mrs. Biddulph's office for RDT.

Mr. Herman gets very angry at interruptions. He stopped speaking to stare coldly at the kid, then he demanded, "What do you want?"

The kid held out the form, and Mr. Herman snatched it. He read it and said, "Roberta Ritter. You're wanted in guidance. There's an ironically named place." He handed the form back to the kid as I stood up.

Mr. Herman was about to resume speaking when the kid said, "What about the other one?"

Mr. Herman arched one eyebrow and snapped. "What other one?"

The kid pointed at the form. "The other name on here."

"I don't know who that is." Mr. Herman directed his eyebrows into the distance, like he was exercising them. "It could be one of them in the back, I suppose. Why don't you go ask them?"