Dave at Night (17 page)

Chapter 34

“
D
AVE!” MRS. PACKER
stood and came toward me. “I'm so glad you could make it.” She took me to the chair next to Solly.

A colored man I hadn't noticed came from somewhere and pulled my chair out. A butler? A real butler?

“Mama . . .” Irma Lee said.

“Yes, baby child?”

“Nothing.” She looked down at her lap. She hadn't smiled at me once.

“So, boychik. Here we are with the leisure class again.”

“We're ready for dinner now, George,” Mrs. Packer told the butler.

He disappeared into the kitchen.

Mrs. Packer turned to me. “What are you studying in school, Dave?”

I wasn't studying anything. I was trying not to listen to Mr. Cluck's bellyaching. “Umm . . . Uh . . . Geography. We're supposed to learn the states and what their capitals are.”

“Baby girl knows all that. Don't you, honey?”

Irma Lee looked at Mrs. Packer, quick and hard, and then went back to staring at her lap.

A maid came in and put a steaming bowl of soup in front of each of us. Nobody said anything. The only sounds were the click of the maid's heels and the clink when she put the soup bowl on top of our plates. I picked up my soup spoon. It weighed a pound. Real silver.

Irma Lee lifted her head and looked at me. She was almost crying. I wished I knew what was wrong.

“Do you like terrapin soup, Dave?” Mrs. Packer asked.

The parrot squawked, “Ess, kinder.”

I tasted it and nodded. It was delicious, whatever it was.

“Terrapin is turtle in a tuxedo, boychik.”

“Eat it while it's hot, baby girl.”

Irma Lee put her spoon in the soup and stirred it a little.

The maid came back to whisk away our soup bowls.

“Did you like the band Saturday night, Solly?” Mrs. Packer asked.

“There's no jazz music I don't like.”

The maid was back with plates of salad.

“Have you heard Fletcher Henderson's band yet?”

“Once. Bandit and I stomped at the Savoy.”

They went on talking about jazz. The salad plates were taken away, and the main dish arrived: lamb chops, roasted potatoes, peas and carrots. I ate everything. Irma Lee ate nothing, but she moved her food around, especially when her mama looked at her.

Now they were talking about Germany joining the League of Nations. Dessert came. Apple pie with raisins in it. Coffee for Solly and Mrs. Packer.

Irma Lee looked at me and mouthed some words. I shrugged to show I didn't understand, and she tried again. At least she didn't seem mad at me, but I still didn't understand.

“We can take our coffee into the library.” Mrs. Packer stood up.

Solly grunted as he stood too. “By me, that's where I always have it.”

I hung back so I could walk next to Irma Lee. “Hi,” I whispered.

“Sorry.” She touched my arm. “I didn't mean . . .” Her eyes filled up. “I was careful.”

I didn't understand. We were in the library, the room with all the books, naturally.

“The green chair is very comfortable,” Mrs. Packer told Solly.

He sank into it. “Oy, I won't be able to get up.”

Mrs. Packer sat on a dark red sofa. She patted the pillow next to her. “Baby girl . . .”

Irma Lee sat on a flowered chair across from Solly. She was tiny in it, and she patted the space next to herself, exactly the way her mama had. I sat in the chair with her. Our knees touched.

“Dave,” Mrs. Packer said, “baby child thinks I'm being cruel, but—”

“You are! Dave needs—”

“Baby child, listen to me. Dave doesn't need—”

“Stop calling me that.”

Mrs. Packer said, “I went out this afternoon to visit a friend.” She turned to Solly. “I couldn't take babe—Irma Lee, because Augusta isn't well, and I didn't want babe—Irma Lee to catch a germ. More coffee?”

Solly shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“But the doctor was there, so I came home. I called baby girl, but she didn't answer. So I hunted for her, and I found her in the basement.”

I began to get it. Next to me, Irma Lee shifted. I turned, and she was crying.

“Honey,” Mrs. Packer said to her, “you didn't do a thing wrong. You were a good and true friend. Dave, you should have seen the things baby girl had down there waiting for you. Cushions from an old sofa, five pillows at least, paper and crayons and—”

“Mama, stop!”

“Dave, I keep telling her that you'll understand. I can't have you living in my basement. I'd—”

“The boychik was going to . . .”

So that's what was wrong. That's why Irma Lee was sorry. She thought she'd let me down. But she hadn't. She never would, not on purpose. “It's all right. I don't—”

“See? I told you. Dave doesn't mind.” Mrs. Packer turned to Solly. “I had another idea. If I helped his family . . .” She stopped and looked uncomfortable, shifted on the couch. “I could perhaps help a relative. A bigger apartment . . .”

Look at this! Mrs. Packer didn't want me so bad she'd pay my relatives to take me.

“Wait.” I held up my hand before she said anything else. “Irma Lee, I was going to tell you tonight that I decided to stay at the orphanage.”

She flew out of our chair. Her face was streaked with tears. “I hate you, Dave Caros!” She ran out of the library.

I started to go after her, then stopped. I couldn't run all over somebody else's house.

“Go ahead,” Mrs. Packer said. She chuckled. “Poor baby girl doesn't . . .”

I didn't hear the rest. I pounded up the stairs and knocked on the door to Irma Lee's room. She didn't say anything, but I went in anyway. She was sprawled across her bed. She didn't make a sound.

Her bedspread was all rumpled. A doll's legs stuck up in the air. A book called
My Antonia
lay facedown near Irma Lee's feet.

“Irma Lee?”

She didn't move.

Her jacks were scattered on the wooden floor just beyond the round rug. The little ball lay between the stilts. I picked it up and sat on the floor by the jacks, which I gathered and scattered again. I threw the ball into the air and picked up a jack. The ball bounced twice before I got it.

I felt dumb playing a girl's game. If Irma Lee didn't sit up soon, I was going to stop and try something else. I threw the ball again. This time I picked up a jack and the ball before it bounced, only with two different hands. I threw again, but the ball went wide. I threw again.

“Nuts!” The jack was jammed between two floorboards, and the ball skipped toward the window.

I heard something and looked up. Irma Lee was leaning over the edge of the bed watching me. A tear stood on the tip of her nose, but she was giggling.

I chased after the ball and threw it at her. She caught it and tossed it back. She was fast! So there we were, playing catch, the fastest game of catch I ever played. She was grinning, looking so happy that staring at her made me miss the ball.

She laughed while I went after it. “I made you miss!” And when I came back she said, “More!” And we were off again. Till she let the ball whiz by her and leaned back and laughed and laughed.

After a minute or two, she scrambled to the foot of her bed and opened the toy chest. She pulled out a long flat box. “Want to play checkers?”

I hated checkers. It was a stupid game. “Sure.”

“You can be black.” She turned the box over and let everything fall to the floor.

I wanted to do something to make her sure we were friends. I was going to be her friend forever, no matter what. She was the only person who wanted me. Not my uncles and aunts, not Ida, not Gideon, not even Solly.

Once, when my friend Ben and I were eight, we each cut our fingers and held the cuts together to make us blood brothers. I wanted to do something like that, but I didn't want Irma Lee to have to cut herself.

She unfolded the checkerboard and started to arrange her pieces.

I spat into my hand. “Spit into my hand,” I said.

She looked up, surprised, but did it, no questions asked.

“Give me your hand.” I took her right hand and rubbed the palm against my palm. “Now we can't stop being friends, ever.”

She rubbed her palms together and then took my other hand and rubbed our spit into it. “Double!”

She was exactly perfect!

I laid out my checkers pieces and moved one forward. “I know how to get into Mr. Doom's office. Tomorrow I'll—”

The door opened and Solly and Mrs. Packer came in.

“Baby gi—”

“We just started playing, Mama.”

“Boychik, it's past Bandit's bedtime. We should—”

“Tell for you your fortune?” the parrot squawked.

It was four in the morning. The chauffeur was waiting outside. I told him where to drop me off: on 136th Street, by the tree with the rope. Then I sat in the back with Solly and Bandit. The back was almost as good as the front, with the heater under the seat to keep us warm, the thick carpet, and the roses, real live roses, in little vases next to the door hinges.

On the wall near my head was a compartment, and one just like it next to Solly. I opened the one on my side.

“Look!”

A jar of assorted nuts, two glasses, a bottle of liquor, and chocolates wrapped in silver paper. Solly opened the one next to him. Lipstick, powder, perfume, a book of fairy tales, and a clown hand puppet.

The car stopped at the oak tree. The chauffeur opened my door, and Solly got out with me.

“Don't break your neck, boychik.”

“Would you stay and see if any lights come on after I go in? If they do, I could use some shmeering.”

“I'll take care of it.”

I got over the fence and back into the asylum, no problem. The poker game was still going on. I took the nearest staircase, tiptoed upstairs and into our room. Where I lived with my buddies.

I fell asleep imagining showing the carving to Irma Lee and the elevens and Solly, with Bandit squawking, “Mazel! Mazel tov!”

Chapter 35

M
R
. D
OOM DIDN'T
leave his door unlocked the next day, and the maid didn't clean. But he did the day after, Wednesday. From the top of the marble stairs in the lobby, I watched him leave without locking up.

According to Louis and Danny, the maid came right away after Mr. Doom left, and it took her about ten minutes to clean. Then he came back fifteen minutes or so after she finished. But they were just guessing, because neither of them had a watch.

I started counting seconds as soon as he closed the door. It was easy. I just kept track of my heart pounding. Blam one. Blam two.

Blam three hundred. Five minutes, and the maid still hadn't come. By now I could have opened the cabinet, gotten the carving, and been out of there. Blam six hundred, and she
still
hadn't come.

Blam six hundred and forty-eight, and a maid came out of the stairwell carrying a feather duster and pulling a Hoover. She strolled toward Mr. Doom's office, taking her own sweet time.

She opened the door, went inside, and I started counting again. If she took a whole ten minutes I'd only have five before Mr. Doom came back, and I didn't know if that was enough.

She was out when I got to three hundred and eighty-five, about six minutes. I started down the stairs, still counting. A prefect opened the door from one of the stairwells. I froze. He went into the side hallway. He had stopped me for twenty-five seconds. I had eight minutes left. I could probably do it twice in eight minutes. I continued down the stairs, starting a new count. Blam one. Blam two.

Don't let anybody come into the HHB. Don't let anybody come through the hall.

Nobody did. I opened the door to the office and closed it behind me, fast. Blam eighteen. I smelled furniture polish.

Blam twenty-one. My hand was shaking so bad I couldn't get the key into the lock and then I dropped it. Blam twenty-five. Don't rush. You're making it worse. Take a deep breath. Try again. Blam twenty-nine.

I heard footsteps. I dove for the kneehole of the desk. The footsteps got louder, passed the door, and got softer.

I'd lost count of the seconds. The key went in. I tried to turn it. It wouldn't turn. Was it the wrong key? I jiggled it. The lock moved. It was the right key! I pulled. The door stuck for a second, then opened. The glass rattled.

More footsteps.

I took out the carving. I touched Papa.

I moved a china donkey, a bowl of seashells, and a wooden box to fill in the empty space on the shelf. Now I'd just put the key back in the desk—

The door opened. Mr. Doom!

“Whaa? Whoo?” he roared. He blocked the door. Black shape in the doorway. Light around him.

He wasn't getting the carving back!
I hugged it to my chest.
He wasn't going to beat me again!
I rushed at him. Jumped—leaped. Reached up. Threw his specs over my shoulder. Threw the key.

Had to get out. He was yelling—words, sounds. “Where . . . You won't . . . Can't see . . . Just let me . . .”

I dodged him. His arms were going up, down, sideways—hunting. I sprang back. He wouldn't get out of the way.

Between his legs. I was a bullet. A cannonball. I hurtled through. He shouted, grabbed. He had my foot. I pulled. Kept going. I was through. He had my shoe.

People running. Mr. Meltzer. Other prefects. Boys. I shot across the lobby. A boy opened the front door for me—older—not an eleven. He had green eyes. Funny how I noticed.

I was out—outside. It was raining. Sleeting. I ran through the gate, and kept going. My shoeless foot—cold,
cold!
Ran toward Broadway. Stepped on something sharp—ouch! Kept running. Three prefects—Mr. Meltzer—behind me. Half a block. Mr. Meltzer catching up. Out of breath. A quarter block—

Broadway—people—peddler's cart—laundry wagon—taxi—trolley at a stop. Trolley! People getting on. Mr. Meltzer at the corner. I ran into the street. One more to get on. I stood behind the trolley.
Hurry up, mister
.
Get on!
He did.
Start! Start!
The trolley moved. I jumped onto the back bumper. Almost dropped the carving.

Good-bye, Mr. Meltzer.

I hung on to the back of the trolley window with my right hand and clutched the carving with the other. My teeth were chattering.

I didn't have a cent. My money was back at the HHB. The trolley was heading downtown.

Where could I go? Nowhere.

It was a laugh. When I wanted to run away, I had to stay. And when I wanted to stay, I had to go.

I looked down at the carving, at Papa and Mama and Gideon and me, waiting on line to get on the ark. The family we should have been. The trolley lurched, and I held on with both hands, the carving between my elbows and my chest. Then the trolley steadied, and I looked at the bottom of my shoeless foot to see if I'd cut it. Miraculously, no blood was seeping through the sock.

The trolley stopped. The conductor was getting out to chase me. I jumped off into a freezing puddle and ran.

I was safe from Mr. Doom, and I had the carving, but I'd never see my buddies again.

 

It took me over four hours to reach my old neighborhood. After the first trolley, I jumped on anything I could, mostly trolleys, and stayed on till the driver chased me off. If a furniture truck driver hadn't let me ride inside with him from 60th Street to Houston Street, I might have frozen to death.

I had decided to go to Aunt Sarah and Aunt Lily's. As soon as the truck driver dropped me off, I knew I was home. I could have been blind and I would have known. It was the stink. Garbage and crap—horse crap and people crap. In all the times I'd thought about home, I hadn't thought once about the smell.

It was a quarter to six when I got to Aunt Lily and Aunt Sarah's building on Eldridge Street. I wished they weren't boarders. It was going to be bad enough telling them what had happened without the whole Cohen family hearing it too. The hallway seemed narrower and darker than I remembered. I climbed the stairs, hugging the carving and trying to make my teeth stop chattering.

I had loused everything up. I should have waited for a day when the maid came right away. I should have just watched to see what happened, to see if it went the way Louis and Danny had said. I could have waited. There was no emergency.

I knocked on the door.

“Who could that be?” Mrs. Cohen opened the door. “Dave? Is that you? Dave Caros? You're soaking wet. Come in.”

I went in and stood, dripping on the cracked linoleum in their kitchen. It was warm in here. I sneezed. Mrs. Cohen had been washing one of her boys in the washtub next to the sink. There were soapsuds in his hair, and he started crying.

Aunt Sarah rushed to me from the front room. “Dave! What happened?”

Aunt Lily was right behind her. “You're drenched.”

Mr. Cohen and another son came out of the bedroom. The two little girls stood in the doorway to the front room. They all stared at me.

Aunt Sarah hurried back into the front room. “I'll get a towel.”

Mrs. Cohen started rinsing the crying kid in the tub. “It's all right,” she crooned.

The Cohens' apartment seemed tiny, but it was the same size as our old place. I didn't remember our apartment being so small.

“Where's your shoe? Sarah, he's missing a shoe.”

Aunt Sarah came back. I handed Papa's carving to her. “Aah, pyew, he's filthy. Get me a washcloth, Lily. Take your clothes off, Dave.”

“I'll just be a minute.” Mrs. Cohen got her kid out of the tub, and I started washing myself at the sink. At the Home we had hot water.

Mrs. Cohen shooed her daughters into the front room. “We'll give you some privacy.” Mr. Cohen and his sons went back into the bedroom. I was alone in the kitchen with Aunt Sarah and Aunt Lily, but it wasn't private. Everybody could hear everything.

After I finished at the sink, Aunt Sarah washed my shirt. Aunt Lily brushed as much of the mud as she could off my jacket and knickers. Then she put something on the stove to heat. Aunt Sarah gave me two towels to wrap myself in and told me to sit at the table. In a few minutes Aunt Lily handed me a bowl of hot spinach-and-bean soup. Aunt Sarah draped my clothes over the stove to dry.

“Where's Papa's carving?” I asked.

“I washed it too,” Aunt Lily said, pointing. It was on the floor near the door, drying on newspapers.

“Dave,” Aunt Sarah said, “what did you do this time?”

I told them. They thought I shouldn't have gone into Mr. Doom's office. And they thought I should have stayed and apologized when I was caught. Neither of them believed me about the beating I would have gotten. They didn't even think Mr. Doom had been stealing when he took Papa's carving.

“He was just keeping it safe for you,” Aunt Lily said.

“It's not as if you're a paying customer,” Aunt Sarah added.

When I finished my soup and some bread, Aunt Lily asked Aunt Sarah, “Can't he stay here tonight? I hate to go out again.”

From the front room Mrs. Cohen called out, “Certainly he can stay tonight. No charge.”

But Aunt Sarah took my clothes off the stove. “They probably called the police. We have to take him right away.”

I should have known better than to come here. I should have known they'd bring me back.