He looked so sad, Brick thought, no, so ashamed, as if the fire were all his fault, as if it were his fault he hadn’t gotten the loan they needed, his fault they had just held on and held on until there was no holding anymore.
Now they were going. Every which way like the quilt.
And the time was really up. A honking sound came from the gray car. The man was leaning on the horn.
Mom tried to smile. “We’ll start over again.”
Honking still. Brick took a last look at the living room. The corner cabinets were filled with the yellow bowls Mom had gotten at the movies. He reached up and ran his fingers over the picture of the Dodgers. And then they were outside.
“You’re a good boy,” Pop said. “The best. I know you’ll always do what’s right.”
Mom hugged him, rocking back and forth. He kissed her, then climbed into the car, holding Claude’s book.
Pop reached inside, touching his shoulder. “I’m proud of you for saving Claude’s orchard,” he said. “I’ll think of it every day all winter. I’ll remember it forever.”
“Drive carefully, Mr. Henry.” Mom looked at the man uneasily. It was someone they didn’t know, a man who was doing this for a few dollars.
“I’m in a hurry,” Mr. Henry said irritably, taking the money Pop held out to him.
The car picked up speed as it left the farm behind. Brick stared straight ahead at the driver’s flat ears, his sparse hair.
The main street of the town flashed by, Logan’s ice cream store, the church, Butler’s Feed, Good Samaritan, the big gray hospital set back on the hill, and then the sign: THANK YOU FOR VISITING WINDY HILL. COME AGAIN SOON.
It was only then that Brick began to realize something. He sat up slowly, feeling sick. It was September. How could Claude pick the apples with his hands like that, with only Joseph, who was mostly useless, and Julia, who was too fragile to climb? Pick them, and pack them, and take them to the market? No one else was around to help now that he and Pop weren’t there. Last year, even Mom had helped, working long hours, her face sunburned, driving the truck.
He had ruined everything. Saved Claude’s apples for nothing, lost their own trees. He wanted to stop the driver and jump out, but instead he closed his eyes as the driver turned, taking the road out to the highway. He could hear the sound of the wheels: Saved Claude’s apples for nothing, for nothing.
6
Brick
The car chugged along, and Mr. Henry, the driver, hardly said more than two words. Brick pressed his nose against the glass, watching the road and all the places he hadn’t seen before. He tried not to think of Mom and Pop, or Claude’s hands, or the apples that would never be picked.
The land began to flatten out now; the hills were lower. He could see a barn here and there, fields of cows, and then they were gone. Ugly little towns appeared, the houses crowded next to each other, small gray buildings, a school with a flag in front.
The smell of gas from the car made him feel queasy and he closed his eyes, listening to the motor. He kept seeing Mom and Pop in his mind, Mom’s dark eyes, Pop leaning over toward him. He kept remembering what Pop had said: “I’m proud of you for saving Claude’s orchard. I’ll think of it every day.”
After a while the car slowed down and the driver pulled up in front of a grocery store. Brick opened his eyes to watch him go inside, reach into his pocket for change, and take a Coke out of the soda bin.
Claude. He could see Claude in his mind, too. Claude with his hands in bandages.
Brick glanced at the store window again. Mr. Henry held the bottle up to his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
If only he didn’t have to go to Brooklyn. If only … And then suddenly it came to him. He knew what he could do. Go back. Go back to help Claude harvest the apples. Everything wouldn’t be such a waste then. And he knew something else. That was what Pop would have done if he could. He was sure of it. He reached for the door handle, but the man came outside, the bottle of soda in his hand.
There was no time to get across the road, not even time to open the door.
He sat back as they drove off, thinking about how long the trip was, thinking about how he could do it, when he could do it, how long it would take him to walk all the way home. But the driver never stopped. Finally, Brick dozed, dreaming of dusty yellow movie dishes.
When he opened his eyes, the world had that look of light going, the end of an early-September day. He raised his head.
A city. That was what this place must be. There were reddish-brown houses in rows, paved streets in squares, a huge cemetery with iron gates, church steeples. Brooklyn.
Mr. Henry was talking to himself, slowing down, looking at house numbers. “There.” He pointed, then stopped the car.
Brick swallowed.
“Don’t forget your bag.”
Brick reached for the case next to him, glancing up at the brown house.
“I don’t have all day,” Mr. Henry said.
Brick closed the car door in back of him. He climbed the steps and put his hand on the bell. But he didn’t press it. He waited as the man drove up the street and turned the corner.
Then he jumped off the steps, his suitcase in one hand, Claude’s book in the other, running faster than he ever had, running in the opposite direction. He kept going until he felt he had no breath left, coughing, not able to take one more step.
He stopped then, and crouched down in back of a row of garbage cans at the back door of a restaurant. He knew it wasn’t a good place to hide. He was too close to the screen door; he could hear people talking inside the kitchen. He stayed there only long enough to breathe easily again; then he went on, going from one block to another. He had no idea where he was or where he should go. And then, out of nowhere it seemed, he was standing in front of a huge building. He looked up to see the sign: EBBETS FIELD.
How could that be? He went closer, moving up to the entrance to see inside: shiny marble floors with markings that looked like baseball stitching, chandeliers with baseballs.
This must be where the Dodgers played!
Wait till he told them at home. Ebbets Field! He’d heard the name a million times on the radio. He’d heard the sound of the bat smacking the ball, the yell of the umpire—“Safe!”—and the crowds of people, their screaming like the wind on the hilltop before a storm.
He took a few steps backward into the street to see all of it at once, almost stumbling over the curb. There was nothing this big, this gigantic, in Windy Hill.
He didn’t see the police car until it was almost on top of him. If he hadn’t run they might have thought it was just a kid who lived nearby, a kid who was on his way home.
But he did run, the suitcase banging against his leg, Claude’s book clutched in his hand. They came after him, the car screeching as it swerved around the corner. One of the cops got out, put his hand on Brick’s shoulder, and motioned to the backseat.
“What’s your name?” one of them asked.
Brick glanced at the laundry on one side of the street, Billy’s, and at the pet store on the other, Exotic Birds. He took a breath.
“Billy,” he said. “Billy Nightingale.”
7
Mariel
This morning, Loretta had twirled around the tiny kitchen holding Mariel’s new blue dirndl skirt out in front of her. “You’ll look gorgeous,” she said, “like Mariel the movie star.”
Mariel crossed the street now, the string on the box of bakery brownies for Mrs. Warnicki looped over one finger.
Should she go to the picnic? She stopped to look in the window of Jordan’s candy store. The dirndl skirt with its wide band of red and yellow flowers swirled around her and the puffed sleeves of her blouse were tied with blue ribbons. Loretta had even curled her hair with a little sugar water and a bunch of kid curlers.
Loretta would want to know all about Mrs. Warnicki’s picnic, how Mariel liked the brownies, how the lemonade tasted, the cookies, the games they played.
&
nbsp; The games. Mariel bit her lip.
At the door, Loretta had given her a kiss. “Remember what President Roosevelt said that time.” She held one hand lightly under Mariel’s chin.
Mariel had given her a quick nod.
Loretta’s voice had floated after her down the steps. “… the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”
Mariel had waved back.
“That’s what he said, Mariel. Right?”
“I know.”
Mariel sighed. She’d have to go to the picnic. But that didn’t mean she had to be at the schoolyard the minute the doors opened. Instead she’d take herself over to Ebbets Field for a quick look, see what was going on.
The Dodgers were playing this afternoon, and if she hung around the entrance, she might see one of the players going in early. Once when they were playing the Cardinals, she had seen Pete Reiser on his way into the stadium. He had tipped his hat at her as if she were grown up and had two legs that matched. Mariel turned and walked in the opposite direction from school. Yes, let Geraldine and Frankie hang around the hot schoolyard playing something like Ring Around the Rosy. Osy Ray. She grinned for a moment, thinking about what it would be like for such big kids to play such a baby game, but then she felt a quick pain somewhere in her chest. She swallowed, sticking her chin up in the air.
In back of her was a jingle of sleigh bells and the clop of Daisy the horse as the ragman pulled onto the avenue. Mariel raised her hand so Benny would stop, then snapped open her purse to find the sugar cube she had put there this morning.
“Hey, princess,” Benny called.
“Hey, Benny.” She flattened her palm so Daisy could take the cube with thick yellow teeth, her muzzle soft against Mariel’s hand.
“School today?” Benny said.
She shook her head. “Schoolyard picnic.”
Benny turned his head to one side.
She tried to loosen her mouth, to make herself smile.
“Maybe you’ll have a great time,” he said, looking a little doubtful. He clicked his tongue and Daisy started up again.
Mariel waited for the light, then went toward Montgomery Street and Ebbets Field. She was halfway there when she noticed the shoes walking along next to her, keeping time. Black shoes, buffed so shiny you could almost see your face in them.
No one called him Mr. Ambrose. Just Ambrose the cop. His hat was pushed back over his dark hair, his blue eyes crinkling. Blue eyes that saw everything.
Ambrose the cop was everywhere. “Going to the picnic?” he said, eyebrows raised.
Mariel didn’t answer. She turned herself around and headed back, putting Ebbets Field out of her mind and Mrs. Warnicki’s picnic in. Ambrose walked with her as far as the gate, whistling.
She stopped at the step and motioned with her hand, a don’t-come-with-me wave. He laughed, pulling his hat down over his eyes, and headed back down the street.
Mariel was the last one there. All the old kids from fifth grade were running around the yard. Geraldine Ginty was charging up and down the school steps, her jump rope a lasso over her head.
Mrs. Warnicki wore an orange-ice summer skirt that rode up over her round knees, and there was a round spot of rouge on each cheek. She looked excited to see Mariel. She took the box of brownies, smiling, and put them on the middle of the table with a pile of other bakery boxes.
“Thoughtful,” she said. “Very thoughtful.” She glanced at the other kids racing around. Already the boys looked hot and sweaty. Their butch cuts were growing in after the summer and their hair stuck up in little points. Mrs. Warnicki turned back to Mariel. “Maybe you could just help me open everything and set it all up.”
Mariel smiled, too. Everyone said Mrs. Warnicki was wonderful. And now she wouldn’t have to stand against the schoolyard fence watching, pretending she was having the best time in the world.
She took her time with the boxes, putting cookies and small cakes on plates with white doilies. Mrs. Warnicki talked the whole time. “Get to see the Dodgers this summer?”
Mariel nodded. She had been to Ebbets Field every chance she could. Sometimes she went with Loretta and they paid at the gate. The rest of the time she had watched from the grate outside of center field where kids could see but didn’t have to pay.
A picture of Loretta came into her head, Loretta rooting through drawers looking for something, talking over her shoulder. “No more bums. No one will say the Dodgers are a joke. We’re going to show them all.”
“Loretta says they’re going to win the pennant this year,” she told Mrs. Warnicki.
“Bet she’s right.” Mrs. Warnicki poured lemonade into a cloudy glass pitcher.
Mariel was down to the last cookie. She put it on the plate and moved a few others around. If only the summer had gone on and on.
Mrs. Warnicki put her hand on Mariel’s shoulder. “I’m going to try to make this a great school year,” she said. “Different, you know?”
Mariel nodded, glancing at Mrs. Warnicki’s red cheeks.
“Little things.” Mrs. Warnicki rubbed at her face. “Too much rouge?”
“Well …”
Mrs. Warnicki began again. “No composition like ‘What I Did on My Summer Vacation.’ Maybe something Like …” She rubbed at her other cheek. “ ‘If I Could Do One Brave Thing.’ ”
Mariel could think of so many brave things to do, so many things she wouldn’t dare do, it almost made her dizzy. Brave Mariel saves someone’s life. Brave Mariel rescues a drowning baby. Brave Mariel …
… finds out about her mother.
She looked down at the plate of cookies. Her mother.
She had asked Loretta once. Loretta had shaken her head, looking sad, so sad. “I never saw her, honey. You had been in the hospital for months when I started to work. I tried to find out, but no one knew.” Loretta had swooped down to hug her. “Love you, Mariel, love you more than anything. Won’t I do?”
Mariel knew her mother must have been at the hospital. Even in that fuzzy time, the machine breathing for her, she remembered the red sweater, the clinking bracelet. When the wind blows …
She stared at the cookies, thinking of polio. Once she had been able to walk nice and easy with regular legs, and then something had happened—a virus, someone had told her, attacking the nerves that made her muscles move. It made her think of an army of terrible insects marching around inside her legs, eating a piece of this and a piece of that, messing with the On and Off buttons. She shuddered. Loretta had told her that President Roosevelt had spent two years in bed just trying to move his big toe. Mariel wiggled her own toes in her shoes. The army of insects had never gotten that far.
Mrs. Warnicki must have said something, or maybe it was just the yelling of the other kids that made Mariel look up. And there was Ambrose the cop again. With him was a mess of a boy, ice cream all over the front of his shirt. It looked as if he had slept in his clothes instead of having them ironed for Mrs. Warnicki’s picnic.
Ambrose the cop walked into the schoolyard, giving the boy a tiny nudge.
Mariel moved around in back of the table, the red-white-and-blue crepe-paper tablecloth hiding her legs.
“This is Billy Nightingale,” Ambrose said, his hand on Billy’s shoulder. He acted as if Billy were an ordinary boy who had just dropped in to say hello, instead of a wrinkled red-faced boy who was twitching his shoulder away.
Ambrose grinned at Mrs. Warnicki with his even white teeth and gave Billy a nod. “See you later,” he said, and marched himself away from Billy and out of the schoolyard.
“Welcome, Billy,” Mrs. Warnicki said. “Officer Ambrose told me you were coming.” She looked from Billy to Mariel. Maybe it was because Mariel’s fingers were tapping on the edge of the table so hard the cookies were trembling a little on their plates.
Mariel didn’t even know why she was tapping. Maybe it was because Billy looked angry. She turned her head. No, not angry. Billy Nightingale was embarrassed. He was trying not to cry. She knew th
at feeling: a huge iron ball inside her chest, bursting to get out, trying to hold it in so no one else would know it was there, chest closing over it, throat closing.
Without thinking, she stopped tapping, and up went her hand the tiniest bit, and then a little farther as she looked right at him. It was almost as if she were waving, a fluttery wave, a hold-on-Billy-Nightingale wave. But when she realized what she was doing, she quickly dropped her hands down among the folds of her blue dirndl skirt and peered at him from under her eyebrows.
He was peering back.
How could she have done that? She dropped her eyes. But then she couldn’t help herself. She took another peek. She liked the look of him. If he’d smooth out his face, he’d be just fine.
And the strangest thing. He was looking at her as if he thought she had a nice face, too. She couldn’t remember that ever happening to her before. Not with a kid, anyway.
But that was because he couldn’t see her legs. She knew her knees weren’t bad, almost matching, round like everyone else’s. And her legs were tan now and didn’t look as milk-white terrible as they did in the winter. They were bad enough, though. One was thin and curved a bit, the foot dropping by itself when she crossed one leg over the other. And the other leg! It was shorter, much shorter. Even her brown lace shoes with the tassels didn’t match. One had a thick ugly heel to try to make the legs the same length.
She looked at the lemonade pitcher. “I’ll pour for everyone,” she said. She wasn’t going to look at Billy Nightingale again. And she wasn’t going to move away from the table with those nice long strips of paper hiding her legs for the rest of the afternoon.
8
Brick
Mistakes! He had made so many since yesterday. Mistakes Pop never would have made. Pop thought ahead. Apple trees need pruning in the spring. Claude said we have to get light in between the branches. And next year …
No next year for their orchard. But there was a chance for Claude. If he went back and helped Claude, it wouldn’t be so terrible that their own farm had burned, wouldn’t be so terrible that he hadn’t been there. He had to get back to Windy Hill. No more mistakes.