The Way to Schenectady (6 page)

Birds wheeled overhead, graceful and raucous. There was a large cloud coming up fast from across the lake, but it looked too puffy and white to be a rain cloud.

Grandma raised her hand. Dad’s smile wavered. Bill swallowed, nervously. I hid my eyes. I do it when I watch
TV
as the heroine’s friend is about to go into the room where the “Thing” is waiting for her. There was a sudden screeching, closer and louder than usual, and a flurry of activity. I peeked through my fingers and saw,
to my surprise, a huge white bird on the center of the table. I couldn’t understand it. Then I realized that the lifelike dessert had been mistaken for a real fish, and been pounced on by a roving seagull, who was, naturally enough, confused. Hard to pick up a Jell-O mold in your beak.

The bird was noisy, angry, and soon gone. In its wake lay the mangled remains of what had been a fish, bleeding bright yellow blood from its heart.

“Did you see Grandma hit the bird?” whispered Bill.

“With her hand?”

“No, with her spoon.
Whack!
Right across its head.”

The old couple from the jeep came over, with sympathetic smiles. “Hello, again! You folks all right?” the woman asked. Flowers on her shirt, like Bernie had said. It took me a moment to recognize them as the people who’d helped Bill down from the gas station fence.

“Fine, thank you.” Dad turned with a smile. “A seagull took exception to my Mother-in-law’s dessert.”

“Pretty darn bold,” said the man.

“I thought it was an angel from heaven!” said the woman. “Swooping down in white like that! I said to Henry – this is Henry, by the way, and I’m Myrna. We’re
from upstate New York, on vacation until we saw yesterday’s newspaper – I said to Henry, ‘That looks like an angel of God!’ Only he said, ‘It’s a bird, Myrna.’ He’s the practical type. I’m always more spiritual. I do parish work back home, St. George’s Episcopalian, and I often see the Hand of God in earthly events. When my lumbago started acting up last fall, I had to stay in bed, and a tree branch fell right across our front walk; might have killed me if I’d been outside, which I wasn’t. Do you see the Hand of God in earthly events, ma’am?” she said to Grandma.

“No,” said Grandma.

“You folks want some donuts?” said Henry. “We bought some on the highway. More than we can eat. Be happy to share.”

“Henry, what a marvelous idea! It’s so like you to be generous to people like these. People in distress. People in need.”

“Donuts.” Bernie and I looked at each other.

“Alien cuisine,” said Captain Billy.

“Too bad they’re across the quicksand,” I said.

“It’s my duty to try them,” said Bill. “On my knees, if I have to.”

“A kind offer,” said Dad. “But we couldn’t take advantage -”

“Nonsense,” said the lady. “I was saying to Henry as we bought them, ‘Are these donuts really necessary?’ We don’t need them. So it’s almost as if they were meant for you folks. The Hand of God again.”

As if to underline her words, the puffy cloud rolled in front of the sun, and the sky darkened momentarily. We made our way toward the other picnic table. The wind was picking up, ruffling the edges of the checkered tablecloth.

“Thank you,” I said to the man. Henry.

“You’re welcome, my dear. Say, did your brother hurt his foot climbing that fence?”

I turned. Captain Bill was on his knees, struggling through the quicksand.

I grabbed a couple of donuts – carefully choosing the ones without icing sugar – and waited for an opportunity to get back to the van.

The kind old lady, Myrna, wouldn’t let me go for the longest time. She babbled on about how much I reminded her of one of her grandchildren; we had the same perky smile and good manners, the same – ugh – sparkling wit. What do you say to something like that? “Thanks,” I mumbled, my mouth full of donut.

“Of course,” said Myrna, “Emma’s hair is dark, like my daughter’s, and yours is …”

“Chestnut,” I helped her.

“Is it really?”

“Like my mom’s.”

“You and Emma have so much in common. I really think the two of you would get along like a house on fire.”

Finally she left me alone. I saw an opportunity and snuck back to the van, getting the surprise of my life when I saw Marty sitting up in the seat.

“What are you doing?” I whispered. “Get your head down. We’ll be leaving soon.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Right.”

I gave him a donut.

“I know that man and woman,” he said. “Where do I know them from?”

“The gas station,” I said. “They were at the gas station.”

“Were they?” He crawled back into his hiding place.

I put a bag of clothes on top of him. “Sorry,” I said. “Now, remember, when we get going, don’t make a sound. Not a sound. Do you understand?”

“Actually, I am kind of tired. I’ll probably go to sleep,” he said.

He wasn’t the only tired one. As we pulled out of our picnic spot, Bill yawned and Bernie wore that folded-in look. He was in that place where babies go before they fall asleep.

“How many donuts did you have?” Bernie asked me.

“I don’t know – one or two,” I said.

Grandma turned around in the front seat to look at me.

“Or three or four,” I said quickly. I’d forgotten the ones I put in my pocket for Marty.

“Hog,” said Bill from the backseat. This was for Dad’s sake. He knew I had taken them for Marty.

“Am not,” I said. “And anyway, how many donuts did you have?”

“Only two.”

“I had five,” said Bernie sleepily.

“Hog,” Bill and I said together. Bernie smiled smugly and settled back in his car seat. A happy hog.

Dad put one of his tapes in the deck.
Oklahoma!
Bernie fell asleep. The car filled with music. The highway and the afternoon stretched out ahead. My eyelids started to droop. I heard Dad and Grandma talking in the front.

“Go on,” he said. “I don’t mind, and they’re all asleep.”

“No,” said Grandma. Her voice sounded a little tight.

“I’m not asleep,” I tried to say, but the words fell together like a stack of cards toppling to the floor. My head rested against the window.

When I woke up, yawning, the car smelled of smoke.

“Is there a fire?” I asked.

Grandma looked out the window.

“There was,” Dad explained over his shoulder, “but it’s out now.”

The man at the border crossing leaned out of his booth and asked us where we were going and why, and for how long. Then he asked our names and how old we were. He wanted to know if I liked ice hockey, which I sort of do, and if Bill spoke French, which he sort of doesn’t. I expected a snort of impatience from Grandma, but she kept her temper very well.

“That’s all then; enjoy your holiday,” said the man,
waving and returning to his booth. There was no one behind us.

“He suspected us,” I said, “didn’t he? He asked a lot of questions.”

“He was just lonely,” Grandma said.

How she could be so sure? I thought back to her apartment. It is pretty small, too, like the man’s booth, and there isn’t a lot of traffic going by. She must feel like that man a lot of the time.

Grandma hadn’t always been lonely, of course. She and Grandpa used to live in a house with a hill in the backyard, and roses under glass jars in the garden. I was little, barely older than Bernie is now, and Bill was just a baby, and Grandma would say things like, “Have you finished with that section of the newspaper yet?” And Grandpa would say, “No.” He was very old, and spent most of his day on the couch.

Before that Grandma had Mom living with her. She wouldn’t have been lonely then. I’m never lonely with Mom. It’s nice when it’s just the two of us, which it isn’t very often. We go out to lunch and put on lipstick and talk about the things we would do if we had a million dollars. On the way back home from lunch, we stop for a swing in the park. And then we go home and have a cup of tea. It’s not as exciting as when I’m with Dad. Nothing burns down. Nothing breaks. I never have to run, or shout, or save anyone from drowning. But it’s really, really nice. We’re the only two girls in the house, after all.

I wish Mom was around more. I read once – it was in the doctor’s office – about a man with a hole in his heart. Actually, I think the article was “Man with Hole in Heart Rescues Baby from Inferno.” The man looked normal, but he had this teeny pin-sized hole in his heart, which, he said, made him feel empty – not all the time, just sometimes. I really identified with that man because I feel empty, too, sometimes, as if my heart has a hole in it where Mom should be. Sounds stupid, I know, and selfish because I have a Mom, and she does important things. I get to see her. Just not as much as I want.

Odd to think about Grandma feeling lonely. I’d always figured that she enjoyed leading an ornery cornery life all by herself. But I guess being mean and grumpy is just a habit. A bad habit, like smoking.

Grandma isn’t going to quit smoking.

We drove in silence through the pretty countryside. Soon we were in hills, up and down, with the sun sinking behind the ones on our right. “How’s our schedule, Jane?” Dad asked me. “Should we look for a place to stop soon?”

“Not yet,” I said. “It’s only four o’clock.” The farther we went today, the earlier we’d get to Auntie Vera’s tomorrow.

“Did you reserve a place to stay?” Grandma demanded.

“No,” said Dad.

“Why not?”

“This is Watertown,” I said. “We could get to Sackets, or even Pulaski.”

“Relax, Mother-in-law. Be flexible. Be open to new experiences.”

Grandma didn’t say anything. I was working out how long it would take us to go from Pulaski to Schenectady, and then how long from Schenectady to Pittsfield, when Marty started to snore. Or maybe he didn’t start; maybe he’d been snoring all along. But he started snoring
loud.
I knew what it was as soon as I heard it: a piercing, high-pitched rush of air.

For a second no one said anything. “Bill?” Dad darted a look over his shoulder. The van swooped like a swallow. “Bill? Is that you?”

I turned around. Bill was doing his best to help. He lay still in the very back seat, with his eyes closed and his mouth open, pretending to snore. I thought hard.

“Maybe … maybe we shouldn’t wake him,” I whispered.

Another snore. Another swoop. “He sounds horrible,” said Dad. “Like a jet engine taking off. It can’t be healthy. Bill! Hey, Bill!”

Darn.
I thought again. “I don’t feel well,” I said.

It hurt to say it. If we stopped now, even for a few minutes, we’d stay the night. We wouldn’t keep going to Pulaski. We’d be that much further behind schedule. I gritted my teeth. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

Marty taxied down the runway again.

“Oh, Oh, Oh. I really have to go,” I said.

“That rhymes,” said Bernie. “Doesn’t it?”

“There’s a hotel!” I shrieked. “I see it.”

“You know, I think I would like to use a bathroom, too,” said Grandma.

“Not me,” said Bernie. “I don’t need one.”

“All right.” Dad slowed down and changed lanes. “I guess we can stay here,” he said.

I relaxed – slightly. All I had to worry about now was getting Marty out of the van without anyone seeing him.

Grandma was helpful when we were getting ready to unpack the van. Dad wanted to carry our bags up to the housekeeping suite we had rented for the night, but she insisted on seeing it first.

“I think Grandma’s right,” I said. “Check out the rooms. You, too, Bill and Bernie. I’ll be along in a minute.”

“I thought you had to go the bathroom,” said Dad.

“The feeling passed,” I explained. “You know how it does sometimes.”

Dad frowned at me, but he led Grandma upstairs. Bill and Bernie followed, and I followed them – just as soon as I’d popped the trunk and released Marty. He woke up slowly and groggily.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Watertown, not too far from Schenectady. You have to go now,” I said. “But I want you to meet me back here tomorrow morning at seven o’clock. The parking lot. Seven o’clock. Okay?”

He nodded.

“You’ll have to find your own place to sleep,” I said. “I have an American five-dollar bill in my wallet. Do you want it?”

He nodded.

“Will you recognize the van?” I said.

He nodded. “I’ve been under plenty of them,” he said.

“Sleeping?”

“No – repairs. I worked in a garage. Mind you, I’ve slept under them, too.”

“Oh.”

He yawned. He didn’t look much worse than he had this morning, but he’d looked pretty bad this morning. Before closing the trunk, I had to ask one thing. “Uh, Marty, you didn’t … while you were in the back there, you didn’t … you didn’t have to … go to the bathroom, or anything,” I said. “Did you?”

He didn’t say anything.

I closed the trunk and ran upstairs.

It was like an apartment. There was a tiny kitchen, a living room with a prickly fold-out couch and a balcony, and two bedrooms – one for us kids, and one for Grandma. Dad eyed the prickly couch unhappily. Both bedrooms had locks. Dad put towels over the tops of the doors so that no one could close them by accident and lock themselves in a room without a key or a grown-up. Once in Orlando Bill and I had closed the adjoining
door on Bernie, who was by himself in Mom and Dad’s room along with the wallets and keys. Dad had not forgotten.