“That’s what she said.”
Her smile faded. “Ask your father when he comes home,” she said, and walked down the hall.
I was sure she knew where Dad went. I was also sure she’d tell him that I asked. I decided to wait and see what he’d say to me about it.
Dad said nothing. Not at dinner. Not after dinner. Not a word.
Next day after school, I went to Mr. Ordson’s. As Mario, the doorman, held the door open for me, he said, “Hey, Pete, somebody was asking me why you’re always coming here.”
That stopped me. “Who?”
“Don’t know. Some guy.”
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“I was helping Mrs. Lyons with her shopping bags. Wasn’t paying attention.”
“What did you tell him?”
He shrugged. “That you work for 4B.”
“Thanks,” I said, heading for the elevator. I was sure it had been Ewing.
Once in Mr. Ordson’s place, I sat down at his table. “I never told you because I had to think things out, but I went to my father’s old friend, that Mr. Depaco.”
“Good for you. What did you learn?”
“He told me lots. And I’m sure he isn’t the informer.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t know my father was a Communist.”
“Did you gather further clues?”
“I know why Dad left home.” I told Mr. Ordson about Uncle Chris and my grandmother. “But the big thing Depaco said was that my father had a brother. Said his name was Frank.”
“Is that important?”
“Mr. Ordson, no one in the family ever mentions him.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
“How singular.”
“Dad had a photograph of two boys hidden in his file. On the back of the picture were three names: Frank, Nelson Kasper, Blaine. My Aunt Betty has a photo of one of the boys on her bureau. I think it’s this Frank. No idea who Nelson Kasper or Blaine are.”
“You’ve become quite the detective.”
“I guess,” I said, pleased.
Mr. Ordson steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and then said, “Pete, have you considered the possibility that your father’s father did die? That this so-called brother is something Mr. Depaco got mixed up? You told me it’s been years since he and your father were together.
“You also say no one in your family mentions a brother. Most likely it is because he does not exist.
“Most importantly, have you considered that there is no informer, and that the FBI learned about your father on their own? That is part of their duties.”
“Dad told me they talked to him.”
“Well, yes—”
“They wouldn’t have talked to him if they hadn’t been tipped off. I’m sure that’s how this all began. And they think I know what Dad won’t tell them. That’s why they keep coming after me. Just now, Mario said someone asked him why I was always coming here. I bet it was the FBI guy.”
Ordson smiled and shook his head. “I have very nosey neighbors.”
“Mr. Ordson, yesterday I called my dad’s office to ask him about Frank. The secretary told me he goes to a gym every Wednesday.”
“Is that of interest?”
“My dad never said he was going to a gym. See, he’s got a bad arm. From the war. He doesn’t do stuff like that. But that secretary said he goes every Wednesday. He must be going somewhere. When I asked my mother about it, she said she didn’t know. I don’t believe her.
“Mr. Ordson, do you think it’d be wrong if I went to my dad’s office and tailed him next Wednesday? Find out where he’s going?”
He frowned. “Pete, you need to respect your father.”
“But he doesn’t tell the truth. One minute I think I figure things out. Next minute I learn something that makes me see it’s wrong. It’s like a detective story that doesn’t stop. I have to solve the mystery.”
Mr. Ordson was quiet for a few moments, then he said, “I fear that in an age of suspicion the last people we suspect is ourselves. Tell me, Pete, is there anyone about whom you’re not suspicious?”
“Kat. You.”
“Kat is gone. That leaves just me. Therefore, I must consider your question thoughtfully. Now, let’s get to the papers.”
The rest of the afternoon went on as usual until Mr. Ordson was letting me out the front door. “Pete, I urge you to ask your father directly about this so-called brother. And going to the gym. Perhaps there is an easy explanation for both.”
“What if he lies?” I said. “Or just goes silent the way he’s been doing? Something is cockeyed.”
“Think very carefully before you do something you might regret.”
“Mr. Ordson, I have to know what’s going on.”
“Do me this one favor, Pete. Promise me that if you decide to follow your father next Wednesday—you have my number—you’ll call me first.”
“Why?”
“Friends talk over important decisions. Will you?”
“Well, . . . okay.”
“Thank you.” He shut the door.
I would call Mr. Ordson, but I had already made up my mind. I was going to follow Dad.
28
Rain on Saturday is worse than rain on weekdays. I had stopped going to movies. I had no friends at school. Kat was gone. I had no place to go. Around noon, Ma came into my room and handed me an envelope. “Mail for you.”
I looked at the return address:
Blessed Saint Anne’s School for Girls
Westport, Connecticut
I tore open the envelope and read the page it contained:
6
XYUL NLUCNIL C BUNY CN
BYLY GCMM SIO XIXAYLM QLCNY E
It was a secret message from Kat.
I ransacked my desk, found the Secret Code Maker and decoded her letter.
dear traitor i hate it here miss you dodgers write k
In code, I wrote back:
miss you too my dad had a secret brother working on clues donavan is the dumps giants p
I hadn’t felt so happy in a long time.
That Monday, May 28, the Giants’ Willie Mays, their nineteen-year-old rookie, got his first hit, a home run. I wished when Dad was nineteen he had done that instead of becoming a Communist.
At dinner that night, Ma had served the food but hadn’t asked her usual “How were things at school?” question, when Dad said, “I have something important to share.”
We looked at him.
He said, “At the college today, I received a special-delivery letter—a subpoena. That’s a legal summons informing me that I’ve been called to testify, July 14th, before the Subversive Activities Control Board.”
My heart sank.
“What’s that?” asked Bobby.
“It’s a congressional committee that investigates what the government calls Communist ‘fronts,’ groups the government thinks have been infiltrated by Communists. Or individuals they think are subversive.”
“You going to be sent to one of those camps?” I asked.
“Why did they call you?” Bobby shoved in. For once, he didn’t smirk. He looked upset.
“They’ve ordered me to provide information. Under the McCarran Act, they can do that.”
Bobby said, “You were just a teenager then.”
Dad said, “That’s true. And a long time ago. I’m just telling you what’s happened. Don’t forget, I’m hardly the only one being called. Lots of others. Teachers. Union leaders. Writers. Actors. Whoever they want.”
“Do you have to go?” I said.
“Yes,” said Dad, flicking some eye talk at Ma.
“What will that committee do?”
“They will question me. If they really know my history, I can’t believe they’re truly interested in me. My guess is they want me to give information about other people. Ask me to name people who I think are Communists or left-wingers.”
Looking at Bobby, I s
aid, “You mean, be an informer?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Just tell them what they want to know,” cried Bobby. “Those people aren’t your problem.”
“It’s not so easy,” said Dad. “I thought I told you, I don’t think the government should question me about my beliefs. Or people I knew. I won’t stoop so low as to tell them what other people think.”
“Just tell them you’re sorry,” said my brother, getting more and more upset. He looked as if he were about to cry. “It’s not worth it,” he cried. “Just apologize!”
Dad, ignoring him, said, “What you all need to know is there’s a good likelihood I’ll lose my job at the college. I doubt the college will want to have a former Communist on their faculty.”
“Tell them you were just a kid,” said Bobby. “You said you didn’t do anything.”
“That doesn’t seem to matter these days,” said Dad.
“What’ll happen with my summer camp?” said Bobby.
“Hopefully, nothing,” Dad answered.
“But—” began Bobby.
I cut him off, “Why don’t you try to stop thinking only about yourself.”
Bobby didn’t snap back. He just sat there, looking miserable.
Back at my desk I couldn’t do homework. I thought about Dad, how he might lose his job and what would happen to us. What would Dad say when that committee asked him questions? I thought about Bobby, too. How upset he was with Dad’s news. Maybe he wasn’t the informer. Maybe if I asked him straight out I’d get a straight answer.
“Hey, Bobby?” I called. “I need to ask you—”
“Shut up,” he said, cutting me off. “I’ve got to study. I need an A in everything from here on.”
“I just—”
“Hey, put an egg in your shoe and beat it.”
I backed off. He was never going to help. As always, I was on my own.
The next day, Tuesday, the Dodgers were in first place. The Giants were fifth. After school, I went straight home. About four thirty, I was in the kitchen when the phone rang. I picked it up. “Hello?”
“Who’s this?” said someone, a man’s voice.
On the alert, I said, “Pete.”
“Hey, Pete. Uncle Chris.”
“Oh, hi,” I said, wondering if he could hear my dislike of him.
“Your dad there?”
“Still at work.”
“Wanted to tell him Grandma is a little under the weather. Nothing serious. Just he should know. Tell him I called.”
“Okay.”
He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “I should apologize for losing my temper the other day. Listening to your uncles talk baloney turns up my steam.”
“Okay.”
“Let me make it up to you. Come out to my shop in Coney Island. I’ll show you around. We’ll have a good time.”
Wanting nothing to do with him, all I could think of saying was, “Maybe.”
“Hey, come on over tomorrow, after school. I’ll treat you to a hot dog at Nathan’s.”
Fishing for an excuse, I said, “Going to see my dad tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? At his college?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How come?”
“Want to,” I said, annoyed that he would even ask.
“That’s nice. Some other time, then. Hey, tell Dennis I called.”
“I will.”
I hung up. Telling Chris I was going to Dad’s college the next day, when Dad supposedly went to the gym, made my plan to follow him real. Then I remembered about calling Mr. Ordson. I didn’t want to. Still, I had promised and he was my only friend. I picked up the phone again.
“This is Jasper Ordson.”
“Mr. Ordson, it’s Pete.”
“Hello, Pete. How are you?”
“Fine. I’m going to do that . . . you know.”
“Follow your father?”
“Yes.”
“As your friend, Pete, I urge you not to.”
“I have to.”
“Is there nothing I can say to discourage you?”
I didn’t even answer.
“Well, then, I admit I’ll be interested in what happens. I’ll expect you Thursday.”
“Okay.”
On Wednesday, right after school, I grabbed Ma’s newspaper, got home, and dumped my books on my bed.
“Hey,” Bobby called from his side.
That stopped me. “How come you’re home?” I said.
“Big exam tomorrow. Told you, got to study.”
“See you,” I called.
“Where you going?”
He was the last person I’d tell where I was headed. “See you later!”
On the street, I looked back up at our apartment. Bobby was staring down at me from my parents’ room, but he could have no idea where I was going. I headed for the subway and Dad. I was excited. This was real detective stuff.
29
New City College was in Manhattan, a bunch of large, square buildings that reminded Pete of a cemetery with giant tombstones. His father’s office was in the Spencer Center, the name chiseled in stone over the entryway. The entryway consisted of a row of wooden doors with doorknobs that looked like baked potatoes. In front of the building was a piebald patch of grass, stunted trees, and hard iron benches. Students—mostly pale young men—were sitting, standing around, reading, and talking, as if they had nowhere else to go. But there were signs everywhere pointing out where to hide in case Communists dropped an atom bomb.
I found a bench off to one side so I could keep my eyes on the entrance. Anytime I had been there with Dad, he had used those wooden doors.
I didn’t have to wait long. Dad came out the one on the far left. In his hand was a leather briefcase, and on his head, his brown hat. I let him go by and then started to follow.
Leaving the college campus, he walked along city streets, heading west. He went without hesitation, never looking back in my direction. I kept a half block behind. Maybe he was going to a gym. I didn’t think so, but I almost hoped so.
After a while, the neighborhood began to change. Buildings weren’t so big. There were fewer offices. We went by a school. A church. Private homes. I saw more kids around.
Dad kept going.
When he reached Hudson Street, he crossed over, made a left turn, and headed south. I stepped into the street between a truck and a car in the middle of the block. When I peeked out from behind the truck, I saw a fast-moving car coming down the street. It was a black Ford, with a license plate that read
PED459.
My heart lurched. Ewing was following me.
I jumped back, stooped low, and stayed down, hoping he didn’t see me. At the end of the street the car stopped. Ewing sprang out and looked around.
After a few moments, he got back into his car. The door slammed, the car started up, reached the corner, and turned north.
I guessed he was going to circle the block and come back to see where I’d gone. As soon as he was out of sight, I ran south along Hudson Street, the way Dad had gone.
That’s when a whole new thought bolted into my brain. My first notion had been that Ewing was following me this afternoon. But what if it was Dad he was really after? What if I had led him straight to the secret place Dad was going?
Still going south, I kept a lookout for Dad’s hat. When I caught sight of it, he was far ahead, going at his steady pace.
I glanced back over my shoulder. Ewing’s black Ford reappeared at the corner and was now coming in my direction. Up ahead, Dad was going into a building.
I quick-stepped onto the street and hoped Ewing was looking at me, like a decoy. Then I got back on the sidewalk and dashed past the building Dad had entered. When I reached the corner, I looked back.
In front of the building Dad had gone into was a “Loading Only—No Parking” area. The black Ford pulled into that space and stopped. Was Ewing coming for me or going after Dad?
I stood in
the open, watching.
Ewing got out of the car and started walking toward me. Hands cupped round his mouth, he bellowed, “Hey, Pete, wait! I really want to talk.”
I ran down a side street. At the first building, a paint store, I yanked open the plate-glass door and ran inside, then stood by the entrance and peered out.
Moments later, the Ford cruised slowly down the street. I could see Ewing scanning the sidewalks. He went by me. But he might have seen Dad go inside that building, and if he was after Dad, I needed to give a warning. Still, if I warned my dad, he would know I had trailed him. Not good. Yet if something bad happened, it would be worse. Plus, the whole point of my following Dad was to learn what he was doing.
Back on the sidewalk, I looked right and left. Seeing no sign of Ewing, I returned to Hudson Street. I reached the corner, checked again. Nothing. I turned north and didn’t stop until I was standing across from the building Dad had gone into.
There was a sign by its entrance: Duffy Nursing Home. That surprised me. But knowing it wasn’t a gym made me feel better about following Dad.
The front of the Duffy Nursing Home was brick painted white, much of that paint peeling. Its pebbled glass door had a small crack in one corner. Each of the four stories had twenty windows across, shades drawn down at different levels, making it look like a patient’s fever chart. At the top of the building was a stone slab with “1910” painted on it. The zero was only half there—like a smile painted by mistake. The building was in need of some of its own nursing.
I shot across the street, ran up about twelve steps, pulled the door open, and stepped into a lobby.
It was a big, empty area, as quiet as three a.m. Old blue carpeting covered the floor. Overhead, bars of fluorescent lights flickered. Against one wall stood two large leather chairs, one leaking what looked like a dirty cloud. There was also a leather couch with no pillows, a half-empty water cooler with bluish water, and a hat stand with no hats. A low table held some old, tattered magazines, Life, Look, and The Saturday Evening Post. On one wall hung a photograph of snow-covered mountains, taken by someone who probably wanted to be as far from this place as possible.
A lady sat behind a reception desk. Her blond hair didn’t match her wrinkled face. Her lips were bright red, and her eyebrows were mostly pencil. If you asked me, she had made herself look older by trying to make herself look younger. She glared at me with a face that said I shouldn’t be there. But her lips said, “May I help you?”