Ma came into my room. Before she said anything, I rolled away from her and said, “Don’t want to talk.”
She left me alone.
When Bobby came in, he said, “What’s going on? Giants lose another one? You actually going to wear that sweatshirt around here?”
It took effort to keep my mouth shut.
In the radio room, with all of us there, Dad told Bobby what he already told me, his summons to the committee.
Bobby said, “You going to lose your job?”
“I’m not sure. It’ll be during the summer. Maybe no one will notice.” His thin smile told me he didn’t really believe it.
Ma said, “I’ll still have my job. Our apartment is rent controlled.”
Dad said, “You should also know I might be sent to jail.”
“Why?” said Bobby.
Keeping my eyes on him, I said, “He won’t be an informer.”
No one said anything. I watched Bobby and tried to read his face. Nothing. It made me remember what Dad had said: “Being silent is a kind of death.”
The death of our family.
Then I remembered my promise to Dad. It can’t be Bobby, I told myself. Stop thinking it’s Bobby. It’s NOT Bobby!
Then who?
36
A week later, the following Thursday, I left school at three o’clock as usual. After all that had happened, suspicion had become my middle name. I was watchful, paying attention to things around me. That’s why I noticed the gray Chevy, the one with the rocket on its hood.
As soon as I saw that rocket ornament, I remembered the car I’d seen near our apartment building a few weeks ago. Now the car was behind me, coming slowly down the street, not passing me, which it could have done easily.
I’d told Ewing I knew about his Ford. That was stupid. He’d changed cars.
I kept going. Once, twice, I looked over my shoulder. The Chevy was creeping along, right behind me. I stopped. It stopped. I walked faster. The car went faster. It was obvious the driver wanted me to know he was stalking me. It was like that time Ewing first followed me home from school in early April.
I reached a corner, made a sudden right turn, and started to run. From behind came the squeal of tires. I looked back. The Chevy was coming.
Mid-block, I ran across the street and sped round another corner. The car roared and shot past me, too fast for me to see who was driving. If he wanted to terrify me, he succeeded.
I doubled back, running hard. The gray car made a U-turn and kept following me. When I reached the end of the block, I realized I was close to Mr. Ordson’s apartment. It was the closest, safest place. I ran for it.
The door was locked and Mario wasn’t there to open it. I pushed Mr. Ordson’s call button. When an answer didn’t come, I pushed it again and again, continually looking back over my shoulder to check the street. I didn’t see anyone coming, not yet.
At last, a voice from the squawk box said, “Who is it, please?”
“Mr. Ordson. It’s me, Pete. I need to come in.”
The lock buzzed. I threw my weight against the door and plunged inside. I slammed the door shut behind me, making sure the lock clicked. Then I headed for the elevator, only to see the numbers over the elevator telling me it was on the fourth floor, Ordson’s floor.
I headed for the steps. Halfway to the first level, I came upon Mario mopping the steps.
“Hi, Pete. Sorry. You better take the elevator. Or the other steps. These are slippery.”
I spun round and started down, halting before entering the lobby again to make sure no one was coming in through the front doors. As I was looking, someone came rushing down the other steps, crossed the lobby, and ran out the front door.
It was Ewing.
Astonished, I rushed down the rest of the steps into the lobby and peered out the front doors. I didn’t see Ewing or the Chevy. Even so, I was afraid to go out to the street.
Behind me, the elevator returned to the lobby. Its door cranked open. I hesitated. But if Ewing had been with Mr. Ordson, I needed to find out.
After checking to make sure no one was hiding in the elevator, I headed up. On the fourth floor, my hand shaking, I pushed the doorbell button on Mr. Ordson’s door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mr. Ordson, Pete.”
The door opened. Loki stuck out his nose and wagged his tail. Mr. Ordson stood there. “Pete,” he said. “I am so glad you came. You’ll never believe who was just here.”
I said, “The FBI.”
“Exactly. That same Agent Ewing about whom you told me. He was actually asking if you had said anything to me about your father. When you buzzed, I told this Mr. Ewing it was you, hoping it would embarrass him. He left immediately. Did you see him?”
“Yeah.”
“As for his questions, of course I refused to answer. The gall. Coming here and inquiring about you. I thought we fought wars to stop that kind of thing. Please, Pete, come in. We need to talk.”
“I don’t want to.”
“For heaven’s sake, Pete, you can trust me. Though I can tell you’re very agitated. Has something happened?”
“Mr. Ordson,” I said, “the last time I was here, did someone come to fix your phone?”
“What an odd question. Let me think. That was . . . Actually, yes, someone did come. Apparently, there was a telephone problem in the apartment below. A man came to see if there were crossed wires in my place.”
“Did you know him?”
“No, Mario handled it. Told me about it afterwards.”
“Mr. Ordson, I think it was the FBI bugging your apartment.”
“Pete, I refuse to believe that.”
I told Ordson what I’d seen and heard in his basement.
He said, “Pete, you can’t be sure. This is an old building. Things are always breaking down.”
I told him what just happened. About the gray car chasing me.
He said, “Are you certain that car was the FBI? Since Ewing was here, he couldn’t very well have been driving the car, could he?”
“Mr. Ordson, did you tell Ewing any of the stuff I told you?”
“Absolutely not. Now please step in, Pete, and we can discuss all this.”
“Mr. Ordson, I can’t talk to you anymore.”
“But Pete—”
“I can’t.”
“Well, in your present state I must honor that. Nonetheless I will insist that Loki and I walk you home.”
Which is what happened. A blind man and his Seeing Eye dog led me home.
When we reached the doorway to my apartment, Mr. Ordson said, “Pete, I urge you to discuss this with your parents. And please, come back at your regular time. I hope we’re still friends.”
“Thanks,” I said.
That night Mr. Ordson called me on the telephone.
“Pete,” he said, “I wanted to tell you I spoke to Mario about that repairman. I asked him if anything struck him as unusual. About the man’s visit.”
“What did he say?”
“The telephone company simply showed up and said they needed to do some repairs. Mario let them. As far as he was concerned it was perfectly legitimate.”
I said, “But you can’t be sure, can you? They’re probably listening right now.”
“Everything is not connected, Pete.”
“It is,” I said.
“Pete,” he said, “do come back. We can talk about it.”
“I can’t,” I said, and hung up.
I didn’t tell my parents what happened. Why should I? I knew what was going on. I’d told the FBI I knew who the informer was. Had threatened to tell people. Now they were threatening me again but I wouldn’t tell. I couldn’t. The joke—if you wanted to call it that—was that I had made myself accept that it was not Bobby.
Still, there was nagging in my head. Wasn’t I —like Sam Spade—supposed, no matter what, to find the truth?
37
N ext day I got a code letter from Ka
t:
dear traitor school almost over some girls are nice teachers okay what are you doing for summer will you go back to ps ten my father came here and told me it was my mothers fault they wont stay married next week my mother came and told me it was my fathers fault they wont stay married this week no one came so maybe it is my fault wish i had your family but that would mean i would have to marry you and you are a giants fan too bad k
I wrote back, in code:
dear angel things are so mixed up my family not good wish i could talk to you maybe i will find a way to visit you somewhere in the world then i could tell you everything because it would take so long to write i think i will be mostly here all summer will you i still believe in the giants and miss you
p
On June 18, Brooklyn was still in first place. The Giants were in second, six games behind.
A few days later, a week before summer vacation began, I walked out of school and stood on the top step. As I’d come to do, I looked around for the Ford or Chevy. I didn’t see either of them. Even so, I kept checking as I walked home. It was when I got home that I saw the FBI Ford parked in front of my house.
My heart squeezed.
Ewing was sitting behind the wheel. When he saw me, he jumped out of the car.
I froze.
“Hey, Pete,” Ewing called. “I was just coming to talk to you.” He drew closer, holding out his hand.
I didn’t move but I said, “I told you I knew who the informer was. I don’t know. So just leave my father alone. Same for Mr. Ordson. I’m sorry for interfering. Just leave me alone, please!” I was yelling now. “I don’t know anything!”
“Come on, Pete, talk to me. I’m your friend!”
I ran past him and into our building. Once in our apartment I slammed the door, locked it, and made sure the door chain was on. Then I ran to the front window and looked down at the street and the Ford. The doorbell began to ring. It rang again. I didn’t answer. There were a few minutes of silence, and then the phone began to ring. I saw Ewing in the corner phone booth. He was calling me. I didn’t answer. After a while, he gave up.
For the rest of the afternoon, I lay on my bed, a pillow over my head. Long after Ewing was gone, I kept hearing his call, “I’m your friend!” I felt so cold.
Next day at school, when the three o’clock bell rang, I went out the main school doors and scanned the street. The gray Chevy was parked at the end of the block, facing me. I spun round and went back to my classroom.
Mr. Donavan was at his desk, an open ledger in front of him. He was writing. When I came in, he looked up.
“Yes, Pete?”
“I forgot something,” I said. What I really wanted to do was look out the window and see if that car had stayed there.
Donavan turned back to his work.
I went to my desk, found a textbook, and pulled it out. My desk was right next to the window, so I could steal a look down to the street. The gray Chevy hadn’t budged. Heart pounding, I headed for the door.
Donavan looked up. “Pete,” he called.
I stopped.
“Were you intending to return to this school next year?”
That took me by surprise. “I guess.”
“You and your parents might reconsider it.”
“Why?”
“The other day I was called to the office. A friend of mine from the FBI was there asking about you. He wanted to know if you lied a lot. I told him I had no experience with you lying, but in class you repeated your father’s Communist propaganda.”
I said, “Is that what you told Ewing?”
His face showed surprise. “Do you know him?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” I said. “And he’s sitting right outside, waiting for me.”
“He is?” He frowned.
It wasn’t hatred I felt for Donavan, it was disgust. “You know what,” I blurted out, “you’re a bully. I’m going to tell Ewing you lie about me.”
His face got all red.
I walked out.
By the time I got to the street, the Chevy was gone. I sat on the school steps and stared at the spot where it had been. I had to admit that I hadn’t actually seen Ewing in that car. He had always been in the black Ford. And that time the Chevy had come after me, as Mr. Ordson said, Ewing was with him. So the person driving the Chevy couldn’t have been Ewing. And Bobby didn’t drive. I decided it was another FBI agent.
On the last day of school—Friday, June 22—we stood in line to hand in our textbooks. When I gave mine to Mr. Donavan, I said, “I’ll be back next year.”
He barely glanced at me. Just took the book and flipped through the pages, looking for doodles. Wordlessly, he placed it on a pile with other books. Then he handed me my yellow report card.
I stepped into the hall and opened the card. Donavan had given me a D in everything. But at the bottom, he had written
Promoted to Eighth Grade.
As far as I was concerned, those D grades were like Dad’s Purple Heart. I had survived.
Out on the street, kids were milling around, shouting, fooling, saying good-bye, making plans about getting together, telling each other their summer hopes. I walked through them as invisible as ever. Didn’t speak to anyone. No one spoke to me.
I made a quick trip to Ritman’s and bought an old Detective Magazine. My walk home up Hicks Street felt like a walk to nowhere. I had no idea what I was going to do that summer. Ma had most of the summer off. Would Bobby be going to his camp or would Ewing stop him? Then there was Dad’s committee hearing. If he lost his job, if he was sent to jail, I didn’t know what would happen.
I got home and checked the lobby table for mail, hoping I’d find a letter from Kat. Was her school over? Had she come home? Where was she?
There was one letter for Ma, one for Bobby. Bobby’s letter was from the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, the people running his summer rocket camp. I put Ma’s letter on the kitchen table, dropped Bobby’s on his bed.
In the kitchen, I called Kat’s number. A voice said, “We are sorry, but this number has been disconnected.”
Sorry is a sorry word. Wondering if I would ever see her again, all I could feel was sadness.
I drank some chocolate milk, ate a Twinkie, and then went into the radio room and started reading my new magazine.
Ma was the first to get home. Big smile. “How was your last day at school?”
“I got promoted to eighth grade.”
“Congratulations! One more year and it’s high school.”
Bobby came home and passed through the room without saying anything to me. Moments later I heard him give an angry yelp.
I jumped up and went over to his side. Face full of fury, Bobby was standing there, holding a piece of paper in his hand. He began to swear. Ma rushed in.
“What is it?” she said.
“They dropped me from summer rocket camp!” screamed Bobby.
“Why?”
He shook the paper at her. “Says I have”—he read from the letter—“a close and continued association with my father, Dennis Collison, who is currently under suspicion for subversive activities by federal authorities.”
“Oh, Bobby,” said Ma. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
“It ruins everything,” Bobby cried. “My whole life.” He swore purple again.
I said nothing.
Dinner that night was just me, Ma, and Dad. Bobby refused to come. There was very little talk. To Dad I said, “I got promoted to eighth grade.”
“I’m proud of you,” said Dad.
Later, I was reading on my bed when I heard Bobby move around on his side of the room. I called out, “Sorry about your camp.”
“What do you care?” he shot back.
“Said I’m sorry.”
“Liar,” he said. “It’s your fault.”
I sat up. “What are you talking about?”
“They promised me. But you had to muck it up.”
“Who promis
ed what?”
“That I’d get into the camp. Then you went to the FBI and screwed it up.”
I jumped off my bed and stood by the partition. Bobby was at his desk, bent over, head resting in his arms. I said, “How do you know I went to the FBI?”
He gave no answer.
“What did the FBI promise you?”
“Think I’m going to tell an idiot like you?”
“You just said that because I went to the FBI they took away your camp. How’d you know I went and spoke to them? I never told you.”
He didn’t move.
I said, “You told them that Dad tells me his secrets, right? That’s why they’ve been hounding me.”
“I didn’t,” he screamed. He sounded close to tears.
“Maybe you didn’t speak to the FBI,” I said. “But you spoke to someone, didn’t you? Because they promised you that camp, didn’t they? Whoever you told, told the FBI. You know what? I’m glad they took your camp away!”
Bobby spun around. His face was so twisted I couldn’t tell if he was angry or about to burst a gut. He said, “You idiot! You have no idea how the world works, do you?”
I said, “Who did you talk to?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out. Get out of here. I can’t wait to leave this family.”
38
I lay on my bed, struggling to put things together. Far as I was concerned, Bobby had admitted he’d made a deal with someone to get into that summer camp. That someone talked to the FBI. So who was that someone?
In all the detective stories I ever read, near the end, the private eye seems stumped. Then he goes over everything that happened, all the facts, all the clues, and blam! he gets his answer.
I went over everything as much as I could remember, the way hard-boiled detectives did, Sam Spade style. Then I remembered something Mr. Ordson had said: “In an age of suspicion the last people we suspect is ourselves.”