The Tunnel of Hugsy Goode (5 page)

"I don't care," said Tornid, and threw his hot dog, litter or not, in the gutter.

"Cluck!" I said." I could have eaten that ... wasting good money..."

"You said some of the money was mine, and I don't care anyway."

But he didn't cry. He's game, my pal Tornid is. There was a great silence after our families had gone around the corner. No train came rumbling by on top, and no trucks came roaring along ... the light was red. In the silence, from far away, we heard the blast of my mom's cow horn again and again and again. It sounded like a ship in distress.

"You hear that?" asked Tornid.

"Of course I hear it, cluck!" I said. "And now we'll make a dash for home. Let's hope the moms are blasting off in the Alley and not out front on Story. Then I can sneak into my house and you can climb into your tree house, pretend that you are sound asleep, have been asleep all morning ... you must have ate something, you can say, that put you to sleep, and what's all the fuss about ... you can say..."

Suddenly, just as we were about to dart between stores into a passageway to Larrabee..."Stop! Timothy! Stop! Stay right there! Don't move an inch! You, too, Nicholas Carroll!" (Remember those are our real names, not our
top secret
aliases.)

The voice of Mr. Fabian. The angry, though quiet, voice of Mr. Frank F. Fabian. (I usually call him Frank but probably never will again.)

Come what, come may was on us now.

The voice of Mr. Frank F. Fabian, his stern and quiet voice, held us rooted to the spot upon which we stood. He stopped his car right where it was, and never mind the honking of the truck of the Seven Sabatini Brothers behind him, unable to pass, its driver shouting bad words. The arguers from the bar stopped their argument and tried to understand what the matter was. One shouted bad words back at the driver, thinking his swearing was aimed at him and shook his fist.

Like my dad, Mr. Fabian is a kind and gentle man. He did not say another word now, though, and his face was stone. He motioned us to get in. There was no thought of just beating it, running away. After Tornid, I got in. The brothers and the sisters were softly arguing as to which one of them had seen us first. Contamination Black-Eyes said. "I told you I saw them, behind those men. I told you so."

So, they had driven around the block, and sure enough Black-Eyes had been right, because we had been there, and now we were here in the Fabians' car. Everybody shut up once we were captured. They didn't look at us, either. They moved as far as possible to the other side of the car to avoid contact. You would have thought that me and Tornid were "Contamination," not the girls.

Silence shrouded us. Mr. Frank F. Fabian started up just as the Seven Sabatini Brothers truck driver managed to maneuver himself around us. As he came alongside, ready to hurl final outbursts of rage, even he shut up—when he sensed the pall—and drove off, jaw half open with some not-said last curse.

I'll quickly give the highlights of the homecoming.

Every member of the Alley including Jane Ives was on his front stoop or at his window. Mr. Fabian parked his car where he always does, way up Story Street beyond the Commodore's house. The Commodore was smoking his pipe and studying his new car and did not look up. We had to walk the gauntlet home in front of the porch standers and the behind-curtain watchers. No one said, "Hello." Jane Ives, seeing we were safe and sound, had gone inside before we got to her house.

We were marching in the middle of the street. Mr. Fabian held Tornid's hand tightly in his. I was walking alone ahead of them. The others of the rescue expedition walked way over to our left. They didn't want to look at the watchers. Some of our disgrace had rubbed off on them because they were related, and they walked with eyes lowered.

When we reached my house, the lineup changed—don't ask me why. We went up onto the sidewalk. Mr. Fabian dropped Tornid's hand. Tornid moved up beside me, us two notorious villains walking together again. But not for long. Tornid's mom, who'd been standing on our front porch with my mom, came to meet us. Now it was her turn to take the hand of Tornid Fabian. "I'll call the police and say forget it, they have been found," she said grimly to my mom as they marched past. Instead of going through our house and in their back way as they usually do, they unlocked the main gate and turned right on Larrabee to go in their own front door.

It had not struck me there'd be such a stir as this. All I'd wanted was to give my pal Tornid and me a little treat, a ride on the Myrtle Ave El before they took it down, if they did. That's all. I had not meant to stay away this long. We hadn't run away, we hadn't been lost. I wanted to defend myself, but I could see there was no defense and, anyway, like in bad dreams, no words came out. It was a wonder I could walk.

Alone now, I made a sharp right turn into our front walk, went past my mom, standing there, cow horn in hand and saying nothing. No one took my hand. And no one gave me a swat either. I went inside.

"Where were you?" Holly whispered as though I were a grownup. It is her custom to speak to grownups only in whispers.

Inside the house everyone acted as though I wasn't there. No one looked at me, no wallop came, no shouts of rage—unusual for my family, especially my mom. Holly continued to speak to everyone in whispers, though no outside grownup was there.

I went up to my room. Steve came up. He moved his things out to some vacant bunk in the attic where a student or visitors sometimes slept. I kicked the wall to show I didn't care. No one said to quit it. I quitted anyway. I lay down on my bed. The house was very quiet. The little trains came and went over on Myrtle. That was about the only sound I heard, and no one was squabbling with anyone.

At six o'clock, Steve brought me up a peanut butter sandwich and a dish of soup. He said he understood I was to stay in my room for an indefinite era of time, maybe a year, except for going to school when the strike got settled and coming home from it. He spoke in a singsong voice. He looked piously at me an instant, fluttered his light-lashed eyelids, and from the door he said Tornid was never to play with me again.

Later, my mom and my dad did come up to my room. They didn't wallop me, even then. They just talked to me. The gist was ... and I knew it ... that I had done wrong, especially to take Tornid off for such a long time and on such a trip without permission or even leaving a clue. Everyone had been in terror, and they were looking for a picture of us to give the police. They didn't know what had happened to us.

I knew I had done wrong. I was unable, still, to say anything. And they left. Since everyone was miles away from me, I threw myself down on my bed and cried. I wondered if even Jane Ives would hate me now, too. I thought of the tunnel. Now, when could Tornid and me find it? Had the trip on the Myrtle Avenue El been worth it?

I searched my mind for something to latch onto in this come what, come may time in my life. A little train came rumbling along. It sounded sad. It had grown foggy out. I looked at the little train, blurry lighted in the mist, and it looked pretty. As it chugged out of sight, a real neat plan got born in my head, something to latch onto in this come what, come may blight.

Next—the plan.

Save the Myrtle Avenue El. Make it a landmark.

That was the plan that got born in my head. According to Mr. John Ives who keeps up with everything ... all Alley people, most of them, come to him for information about—you name it, anything!—they are talking of tearing down this El. I sat at my window and watched the Els go weaving through the mist in their businesslike way. It was as though they were saying, "Put in this—in your plan—put in that." So many ideas about the El were churning up my mind! I began to feel happy. You do feel happy when you have a plan and know it's a good one.

First I wrote the plan down, as the ideas came, not to forget any of it. Then I copied it carefully to send to the mayor. I don't think he and his landmarks people have thought of it, or Mr. John Ives would have heard about it and told everybody. Here's the plan, right hot from the brain, making the come what, come may blight bearable:

To His Honor, the Honorable Mayor of the City of New
York, Mayor Woolsey
Gracie Mansion on the East River near 89th Street
New York, New York

Dear Mr. Mayor:

Here's my plan, my landmarks plan, about the Myrtle Avenue El in Brooklyn that I, I and my friend, Tornid, took a ride on today. It is the last El in New York including Staten Island. There's more than one plan here really—any of them would be nice.

Plan 1.
Don't let them tear it down.
A rumor has been going around for years that this El is going to be torn down soon, the way all other elevateds have been. This would be a terrible mistake. People are very worried. How are they going to get from the cemetery out in Queens down to Jay Street, Brooklyn, to work or to shop at A. & S. in the morning and then back home again at night? Miss all the fun of the trip, day in, day out—people get to know each other waiting for the train, run if they hear it coming, and they like looking out the windows at the rooftops, like watching the pigeons flying there. Why not have it that this last El is proclaimed a
landmark?
A souvenir of bygone days? If you have never ridden on it, you should try to do that some day. You should see for yourself how nice this El is, especially if you stand at the front door and see the tracks ahead shining in the sunlight. In the rain, it would be nice, too. And in the snow and ice the wheels make sparklers on the tracks—a Fourth of July fireworks in January.

Plan 2.
A Feast Line.
If the day comes when you just have to say OK to those people that want to stop using the El as an el, you can still proclaim it a landmark, still not tear it down. You could do this:

Have it that each station is painted a different color. The people in each neighborhood could vote what color they'd like best.... I hope bright red would win for ours. And each station could be turned into a little restaurant up there, sky restaurants of the Myrtle Avenue El. And some, if people wanted, could have a small gallery connected, art or neighborhood items—odds and ends—strange garb like a Job Lots store, or a bookstore ... paperbacks ... all kinds of books with book stalls outside in nice weather. The ticket booths could be where you pay for your food, or whatever you buy.

Each restaurant station could have its own food, specializing in the food of that neighborhood or of any special country ... say, one Chinese, one Mexican, one Spanish, one Greek, one Italian, and so forth. You could get from one neighborhood sky restaurant to another by means of a little landmarks El train, also painted pretty colors. In the summer they could have open-air little trains, like at a fair. You could hold a competition and choose the best designs. I'm starting on some myself, tonight.

So far, no one but you, now, and me know about this plan. I'll tell Tornid Fabian and Jane Ives. They're my friends. That's all. They are in on all my plans. Tornid and me are trying to locate a lost tunnel we think exists under this Alley where we live on this campus of Grandby Institute. When we locate it, I'll let you in on that so you can scoop it and the Alley houses into the landmarks El bill, too. If you want to.

Your friend,
Copin Nubsy Carroll

P.S. My friend, with me on the ride today, Tornid Nubsy Fabian, lives at 1010 Larrabee Street. C.N.C.

P.S.2 It could be the showplace of the nation, of the world, our Myrtle Ave El station restaurants could be. Expo El. C.N.C.

After a while I made another copy of the letter for Tornid—to give him, if I ever see him again, even though he won't be able to read all the words yet.

I found a large manila envelope in my desk a magazine had come in, and I pasted a piece of paper over my name and printed the mayor's name and address on it in India ink. In the upper left-hand corner, the way the teacher says to do, I put my name, Copin Nubsy Carroll (using my fake name for luck), and my address. I hid all these things and went to bed.

It's lucky that I had that plan and the tunnel plan to latch onto in my mind during the next ten days because the blight was pretty total. Get up, dress, have breakfast, clean teeth, do chores—empty trash, garbage, and such (Steve and Star are piling some of their chores on me, capitalizing on my disgrace)—go to school—strike's temporarily settled, thank goodness, so at least it's some place to go—come home, have snack, go up to my room, stay there until dinner. That was my life. Few words came my way, mainly sneers.

As for Tornid, I don't know whether he got a different variety of punishments than me since I didn't ask and no one volunteered the information. I acted like I didn't care, suits me fine, my life, and all that. I gave that impression.

Eventually I did hear. Trust Star to inform me in a roundabout way, saying to Notesy on the stairs, loudly so I'd hear, "I heard," she said, "that Timmy is never going to be allowed to play with Nick again, not even when he is allowed back out again."