No more talk. Or answers. Kat was right: Parents don’t want kids to know the truth about them.
Where did my grandfather go?
Where did Dad go? What did he do?
The name Alberto Depaco stayed in my head. Uncle Chris said he took off with Dad. Must have been close friends. But I never heard Dad mention him.
I went to the kitchen and checked the phone books. It was in the Brooklyn book that I found
Depaco, Alberto 452 Diggs Avenue TRiangle 5 3218
He hadn’t vanished.
Which meant I might get some answers from him. If I had the nerve. If I really wanted to be a hard-boiled detective.
And I did.
23
Monday morning, I met Kat by the newsstand. The first thing she said was, “Did your grandma tell you anything?”
“Said my grandfather vanished. Then my father vanished.”
“Sounds like a magic show. Where’d they go?”
“Dunno.”
“Why doesn’t your father tell you?”
“Dunno.”
“Just say ‘doughnut.’ It would sound better.”
From there, the rest of the week had its ups and downs.
It was a good baseball week. It started out with the first night game of the season, when the Giants beat the Dodgers. I stayed up listening, relaying every good thing the Giants did to Bobby until he told me to shut up. After that game the Giants went on to beat the Cubs.
In school, it was mostly bad. Not only did we have another atomic attack drill, Suzy Russell passed out invitations for a Saturday-night birthday party. The whole class was invited. Except me.
But each day Kat and I had time to talk when we walked to and from school.
I told her about Al Depaco. Ten, fifteen times, I looked up his name in our Brooklyn phone book. Twice that week I even called his number. The first time was on Monday. When I got home from school, I grabbed the phone before I could tell myself not to and dialed. No answer. On Tuesday night, I called when everybody was out of the kitchen. It rang four times before a man’s gravelly voice said “Hello.”
I lost my nerve and hung up. More soft-boiled than hard-boiled.
“We need to go see that Al Depaco,” I said to Kat on Wednesday.
“When?” she said.
“Some Saturday morning. Instead of the library.”
She said, “Doughnut.”
“This weekend, at the library, we can find out how to get where he lives. Come up with a plan.”
That day after school, when I got into our building, I checked the lobby table for mail. There was something for my dad and a tan envelope for me.
I tore the envelope open and there it was, my Secret Code Maker. It was made of cardboard, about six inches long, four inches wide. At the top, in bold letters it read
SHREDDED WHEAT SECRET CODE MAKER
It was a simple thing. By shifting the letters of the alphabet, you could create a new alphabet. A could become B, then B would become C, and so on. That was code 1. In code 2, A became C, B became D. Shift again, new code, new code number. If I sent a coded message to Kat, and told her what code number I used, she could decode my message.
At first, I was excited. We had had schemes for leaving secret messages around the neighborhood. When we first learned about the Code Maker, it seemed the biggest thing in the world. That was before all this stuff happened. So I just flipped the Code Maker onto my desk and told myself to forget about it. My life already had too many real secrets.
On Thursday, as usual, I went to Mr. Ordson’s. We began the way we always did, with me sitting at his small table, drinking milk, eating Oreos. He said, “Are things better in school?”
“Not really.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” He clasped his hands and touched his fingertips to his lips. After a long moment, he said, “I don’t believe I ever told you how I lost my sight, did I?”
“No, sir.”
“I was a soldier during World War One. We suffered a German gas attack.”
I stared at him. All I could say was, “Sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“Did it hurt?”
“For a long time, yes.”
“Is it . . . bad not seeing?”
“I don’t like it,” he said. “Of course, these days my blindness is no longer painful. What hurts is not seeing the world. Then again, though my wife passed on some years ago, I see her in my dreams.”
As he went on, Mr. Ordson seemed to change. His mask began to melt. His face came alive. He was happy one moment. Sad the next.
He told me where he was born: North Carolina. His first name: Jasper. How he lived after the war, which he said was hard. Getting married. Being a blind parent. What would it be like never to see your own kid?
He answered my unspoken question when he said, “You don’t have to see someone to love them.”
His daughter, grown and married, lived in Chicago. They talked every week.
“Many old friends aren’t alive,” he said. “I am. But I have new friends. Like you. I read with my fingers. You read to me. There’s the radio. I don’t think I’ll have much use for television.”
I kept looking at him. He was telling me amazing stories. What was most amazing was that he was talking to me. He even called me his friend. No adult had ever called me that.
“Well,” he said at last, “I have rattled on, haven’t I? You must pardon me.”
We sat there not talking for so long, Loki looked up and around, as if making sure we were still there.
At last, I said, “Do you really want to know why my school isn’t good?”
“Only if you wish to tell me.”
I hesitated, afraid that if I told Mr. Ordson the Commie stuff, he would fire me. I said, “Not sure I should say.”
“That’s perfectly acceptable,” said Mr. Ordson. “You don’t need to. Let’s do the first newspaper.”
I reached for it. Except now I wanted to tell him everything, wanted to share my puzzles with an adult.
“Mr. Ordson,” I whispered, “I’d . . . I’d like to tell you what’s been happening.”
He folded his hands. “When a young man talks to an old man, it is always a gift.”
I started talking. It was like prying the cap off a shaken-up bottle of pop. Everything bubbled out.
I began with all the school stuff. When that was said, I couldn’t stop. Though I knew I wasn’t supposed to, just as I told Kat, I told Mr. Ordson about Dad.
As I talked, Ordson kept his blank eyes aimed at me. Never said a word. I’m not sure he even moved.
I ended by saying, “Worst thing is Kat, my best friend. Her father said she can’t be friends with me anymore. You know, the Commie stuff.”
“What does she say about all that?”
“Says she’s still my best friend.”
“You are lucky to have such a friend.”
“She’s a Dodger fan.”
“And you?”
“Giants.”
“And I cheer the Yankees. Despite such deep loyalties, I suspect we can get along.”
“Mr. Ordson, there’s more.”
“Yes?”
I hesitated a moment and then said, “I’m pretty sure there are things my dad doesn’t want me to know. I found some photographs my father was hiding. Pictures of him as a kid with another kid I never heard anything about.”
“Seems innocent.”
“Yeah. And maybe it was the kid he ran away with. Except there was a picture of that same kid on my aunt’s table. I don’t know why she’d have a picture of my dad’s friend. Dad told me he’d always tell me the truth. I don’t think he is. He’s hiding something. I’m sure he is. What if he did something really bad?”
Mr. Ordson sat quietly for a few moments and then said, “Man has unraveled the complexities of the atom and how to release its force.” He smiled. “Yet nothing is more complex or explosive than families.”
“I just wa
nt to help Dad.”
“And the FBI agent came to see you a second time?”
“I know why, too. They think I know my dad’s secrets.”
Mr. Ordson pressed his hands together, and, like before, placed them so his fingertips touched his mouth. He sat there for quite some time.
Feeling more and more uneasy, I whispered, “Mr. Ordson, do you want me to leave?”
“Why should I?”
“The Commie stuff. It’s not great, is it?”
“It’s difficult. I do believe the Soviet Union is our enemy. I don’t believe your father or you are enemies. Indeed, I think you are a fine young man. I’m inclined to believe that about your father, too.”
Then I said, “Mr. Ordson, I . . . I don’t know what to do.”
“Why must you do something?”
“I want to find out who the informer is. Why Dad ran off. What happened to my grandfather.”
“What good would it do to learn all that?”
“Dad said it might help if he knew who the informer was. And that other stuff, maybe it’s connected. In detective stories, questions always are.”
“You care for your father a great deal, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Ordson said, “Somewhere I recall reading that a parent’s secret is the child’s burden. But generally speaking, I believe it’s always better to learn the truth.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I said, “I . . . had one idea . . .”
“Do share.”
“The guy Dad ran away from home with—I think I found out where he is. He lives in Brooklyn. Maybe he could give me answers.”
“Are you allowed on the subway alone?”
“Yes.”
“Then consider going to see him. It will take courage, but you have that. First, however, I suggest you get more cookies and milk. We cannot live on the bread of friendship alone.”
Friday morning I told Kat about what Mr. Ordson said, how he agreed I should go see that Al Depaco.
“I’ll go with you,” she said.
“We can plan when we meet at the library tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
The day ended with my learning that the Giants had started losing again. It didn’t bother me much because the next day Kat and I would plan our trip to see Depaco. It was just like a detective story, when the private eye learns where the big clue is. It might be dangerous to grab it, but he has to.
24
On Saturday, I got to the library a little before nine. Kat hadn’t arrived. Soon as the doors opened, I went in and headed for the front desk, glad to see the young librarian there.
“How can I help you?”
“I need to know how to get somewhere in Brooklyn.” I showed her Al Depaco’s address.
“That should be no problem,” she said, getting up. “Let’s go over here.” When she added a crinkly-eyed smile, I decided Kat was right. She was nice.
She led me to a section labeled “Reference,” and pulled out a book called Brooklyn Street Maps. After flipping through some pages, she put a finger down as if pinning a bug. “Here’s where you’re going.”
“How do I get there?”
She pointed to a thick red line. “That’s the BMT subway line. The address you want is near the Graham Avenue station. Then a bit of a walk. Doesn’t look too hard.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I studied the map, writing down names of subway stations and streets. I was sure Kat and I could find it.
When Kat arrived an hour later, I was sort of reading a large book about old-time baseball players. Mostly I had been worried about Kat. Wasn’t she coming? Had something happened?
She plopped down in the seat next to me. “You’re late,” I whispered.
“Sorry.”
“Getting ready for Suzy’s party?”
“Not going.”
“How come?”
She shook her head.
I looked at her. Her face was dirty, as if she had climbed out of a hole. “You okay?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
When she didn’t answer, I said, “The librarian showed me how to get to Al Depaco’s place. It’s not hard.”
“That’s good.” Her voice was flat.
“Yeah. Maybe he’ll give me some answers. And . . . I want him to be the informer.”
“How come?”
“Then I won’t have to think it’s Bobby.”
She stayed quiet, resting her hands on the table, squeezing and rubbing them as if they hurt.
I said, “Something bad happened, right?”
She nodded.
“What?”
She wouldn’t look at me. A tear slid down the side of her cheek. She took off her glasses and smeared the tear away. Another one came and she smudged that one too, leaving streak marks up and down her face so it seemed as if she was peering out from behind a cage.
“Tell me,” I said.
She picked at a fingernail. “Remember last week when we were here, a red-haired lady made us keep quiet?”
“Yeah.”
“And I told you it was my mother’s friend. Well, she told my mother she saw me here. You know, not at the movies. And said I was with you.”
I waited.
“My mother told my father.” Another tear slid down her cheek. “He’s . . . he’s sending me away to a girls’ boarding school.”
“You serious?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“He said you’re not a good friend for me. You being a boy . . . and a Commie. He said, ‘I don’t know which is worse.’ You don’t know how suspicious he is.”
“He’s sending you away . . . because of me?”
She nodded.
“What did your mother say?”
An angry shrug. “Daddy’s boss.”
I felt sick. “Sorry,” I managed to say.
“Sorry is a sorry word.”
I thought desperately. “We could run away! Vanish! Like my father did. Like his father did.”
She said nothing, just gave a little shake of her head.
“When . . . when you going?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow!”
More tears came. She had the saddest face I ever saw.
My chest felt as if it was stuffed with mud. “You’re . . . my best friend,” I whispered.
“Same.”
After a while I said, “You ever get that Secret Code Maker?”
A small nod.
“We could send each other messages.”
“Suppose.”
“You have a place I can send them?”
“Don’t know where I’m going.”
“You have my address, right?”
She nodded again.
I felt angry. Helpless. Though it was a library and you were supposed to be quiet, I felt like screaming “It’s not fair! It’s not right!”
She stood up. “Gotta go. I snuck out. They don’t know I’m here. I didn’t want to leave without saying good-bye.”
She took a couple of steps, turned back, slid her glasses up, and gave a little wave. “See ya.”
“See you . . . angel.”
Eyes widening behind her glasses, she offered a small smile, and said, “Catch you later, traitor.” Then she turned and ran.
I watched until I couldn’t see her anymore. Then I pulled that big baseball book close up to my face and pretended to read. I was crying.
25
Kat’s dad is sending her off to boarding school. Today.” I had been so upset I waited a whole day to tell my parents the news about Kat. It was during Sunday breakfast. Bobby was still asleep.
“Was there any reason?” asked Dad.
I looked at him. “Her father doesn’t want her to be my friend. The Commie business.”
“That’s dreadful,” cried Ma.
“Utterly ridiculous,” said Dad.
Ma said, “Do
you know where she’s going?”
I shook my head.
Dad said, “She was—is—a wonderful friend.”
“Maybe there were other reasons,” said Ma.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Sometimes when parents aren’t happily married, kids pay a price.”
“Hate them,” I said.
“Understood,” said Dad, ruefully.
When I got to the newsstand Monday morning and Kat wasn’t there, I knew she was truly gone. It was an awful moment.
But there were more bad things.
That Tuesday we were having our regular family dinner. First thing my brother said was, “Giants in last place.” Then he told us how some teacher had told him how smart he was.
The list of people I hated was growing.
Ma asked Dad how his day was.
“Not good. Dr. Dolkart, head of the History Department, told me the FBI had been around asking questions about my political past.”
I was sure it was Ewing.
Bobby cried, “That mean they know you were a Communist? They have no right to—”
Ma snapped, “Bobby, let your father talk.”
Dad gave me an unhappy look, as if I had told Bobby. He didn’t know Bobby had been snooping around and listening to our conversations.
Dad went on: “Dolkart let me know that if there was anything unsavory about my past, there might be problems at the college. They’re concerned about bad publicity. The college will act to protect its reputation.”
“And do what?” Bobby demanded.
Dad said, “Fire me.”
“Can they do that?” I asked.
“We’ll find out,” said Dad.
“Tell them you hate Communists!” cried Bobby. “That what you did a long time ago was something stupid. That’ll satisfy them.”
Dad spoke sharply: “Bobby, I don’t believe any government has the right to inquire about my beliefs.”
I said, “Was the FBI agent who went to your college the same one who came here?”
“What FBI agent?” said Bobby. “How come no one tells me anything?”
Liar. I was sure he knew all about it.
“The FBI came around to question me,” said Dad. “Pete happened to be here alone.”
Dad’s eyes shifted toward Ma for some secret talk. What he said was, “I just wanted you to know what might happen.”