I hesitated, not knowing what to do next. I waited until Lowery finally quieted down. He pointed at me and sputtered, “You’re gonna pay for this, Conway. Big-time.”
“Get up, then. Make me pay for it now. Just you and me.”
“I can’t get up.”
“Yes, you can, you coward.”
He snarled, “We’ll see how brave you are when school starts.”
“I’m not coming back to this school. I’m brave right now. Get up.” I stepped forward again, causing Lowery to scurry farther back across the floor. “This is it, Lowery. You and me alone. What are you going to do?”
“You’ll find out!”
“I already know what you’re going to do. Nothing. You’re going to do nothing because you are nothing. A big nothing when you’re by yourself.” Lowery was now crouching against the chairs directly below Rembrandt’s Abraham and Isaac, and I suddenly knew what to do next. I grabbed the thick wooden frame of the painting, pulled it off its hooks, and held it over Lowery’s oversized head.
He yelled, “Are you crazy? That’s vandalism! That’s a Rembrandt!”
“No, it isn’t. It’s a cheap imitation. This school doesn’t own a Rembrandt.”
I let the painting crash of its own weight, right on top of him. The canvas stretched in the middle and then ripped away from the frame. Lowery’s head poked through from below. He pretended to fall unconscious to the floor, but I knew he was faking.
I stood over him for several seconds, panting triumphantly, until I became aware of someone standing behind me. I spun around and found myself face to face with Manetti. He looked from me to Lowery and back again. Then he smiled.
I stammered, “What . . . what are you doing here?”
Manetti grinned nonchalantly. “Checking you out. Nice work.” He made a dismissive move with his hand in Lowery’s direction. “Forget that punk. Right?”
“Right.”
“So? How are you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
“Good. That’s good. And how’s my man Pinak?”
I stole a quick look at Lowery. He still hadn’t moved. “He’s okay, too. You know—Pinak is Pinak.”
“Yeah. I know. I miss busting his balls.”
“Yeah. You should let us IM you again. I miss your messages.”
“Really? What about Pinak?”
“He misses them, too.”
Manetti shrugged. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I will.”
I thought about the day he got expelled. I told him sincerely, “I’m really sorry about what happened to you here.”
Manetti actually smiled. “Hey. This place sucks. I’m glad I’m out. It’s my dad that’s pissed.”
“Really? Still?”
“Yeah. More than ever. He’s not so good at letting things go.”
“Are you at Garden State Middle?”
“Yeah.”
“How is it?”
“The chicks are hot, man. Makes this place look like the dog pound.”
“I’ll see you there soon. Maybe we can hang out.”
“Yeah? Cool. We can go to the mall.”
“Sure. Why not?”
We finally heard Lowery move. Manetti yelled at him, “If you come out of there, Lowery, I’ll kick your ass next. I’m just waiting for my turn.” He winked at me. “And don’t let me see you at the mall, either.”
Suddenly I was startled by the sound of a diesel engine throttling to life. I tried to imagine what it could be. I looked at Manetti. He wasn’t startled at all. I asked him, “Wait a minute, Manetti. What are you and your father doing here?”
He looked toward the outside door. “I’m not sure. But I think something’s going to happen. In fact, I’d bet on it.”
He led the way to the door and threw it open. The Manetti Construction truck was now inside the gate. Mr. Manetti was sitting in the cab of the small bulldozer, raising up the iron-toothed bucket on the front and then dropping it down again.
I shouted over the engine noise, “What’s going on?”
“Like I said,” Manetti answered simply, “my dad’s pissed.”
Mr. Manetti threw the bulldozer into gear and throttled it slowly down the back ramp of the flatbed truck. Then he drove it straight across the road to the slate entranceway of the Heroes’ Walk. The group of Lowery family and friends watched, befuddled, as the John Deere 350C rolled like a small yellow tank past the statues of FDR and JFK and bore down quickly on the statue of General Lowery. The dozer must have been traveling at twenty miles per hour when it hit, creating a jagged crack between the pedestal and General Lowery’s feet and spewing chunks of Carrara marble all over the slate. Members of the Lowery group screamed and scattered.
Mr. Manetti threw the bulldozer into reverse, lurched back, and accelerated forward again. This time he raised the bucket in front and struck the statue full in the chest. General Lowery’s pointing arm broke off. Then his great marble head tottered slightly forward, then slightly back, and thudded onto the gray slate, further panicking the group of family and friends. Mr. Manetti pulled back, lowered the bucket, pulled forward again, and scooped up the marble head. Then, with an enormous diesel roar, he lurched off toward the river.
Cal Livingstone broke from the group and ran after him. He managed to catch the slow-moving vehicle after twenty yards. He tried to grab the back of the cab and leap on, but he lost his grip and fell to the asphalt roadway, tearing the pants of his blue suit and skinning his right knee.
Mr. Manetti didn’t stop the bulldozer until he reached the back wall of the school. There he raised up the bucket to its full height, extended it over the iron railing, and dumped the marble head into the icy Millstone River.
I looked left, toward Manetti, and then right, toward the Heroes’ Walk. Every mouth on the campus was hanging open. Father Thomas stood rigidly among the guests, clearly in shock. When he finally snapped out of it, he started shouting to the family members: “This cannot be! We will make repairs immediately! Nothing will prevent this historic dedication to this great American!”
Cal Livingstone’s wife and son ran to him, but he angrily pushed them away. He limped back to the first row of the bleachers, his bloody knee showing through his suit, and screamed at Father Thomas, “What are you waiting for? Call the police! Arrest that maniac!”
Father Thomas stammered, “Yes, I will,” and took off immediately toward his office.
Meanwhile, Mr. Manetti drove the bulldozer back along the roadway, veered to the right, and rolled slowly up the ramp of the truck. He hopped down and gestured to his son to join him. Then the two of them got into the cab and drove away without so much as a sideways glance.
I caught sight of Mom and Margaret in the crowd, and I ran over to them. Mom looked shocked, too, but Margaret looked elated. I watched her give Mom a gentle shove toward the parking lot, telling her, “Go on and start the car, Mom. Martin and I will be right behind you.” She waited until I was next to her to fulfill her own secret purpose. She walked over to Cal Livingstone with a look of great concern on her face. “Mr. Livingstone?”
Mr. Livingstone looked at her with annoyance. He didn’t speak, so Margaret continued, “I wanted to talk to you again about that entry. The one at the Millennium Encyclopedia? We are indeed doing an entry on General Henry M. Lowery. It will include some new primary source material that we recently uncovered—some memos copied by a woman named Daisy Traynor.”
Mr. Livingstone’s eyes bulged.
“The entry will, of course, be meticulously fact-checked and devoid of all prejudice. We are giving the General a new nickname, though. I thought I’d preview it for you today. Are you ready? It’s ‘Hitlerin’ Hank’ Lowery. How’s that sound?”
Margaret spun on her heel and walked off briskly before he could even react. I looked back at the Administration Building. Hank Lowery still had not emerged, but Father Thomas must have found him by now, along with the ruined Rembrandt. No doubt about it, it was time for the Conway family to
leave All Souls. For good. I took off running after her.
We drove home in a wild and giddy mood. Mom articulated the feeling for all of us: “We’re free from that place now. And from all of those people.”
After a few miles, though, reality started to set in. Margaret asked Mom, “That was cool how you quit. But what are you going to do? Look for a job?”
“No. I don’t have to. I won’t have to for years if I manage my money right.”
Margaret and I exchanged a look. “What? What happened? You sound like you won the lottery.”
“No. No lottery. It’s my inheritance. Half of the house in Brookline is mine, and it’s worth a lot of money. I’ve directed Elizabeth to sell it.”
“You directed Aunt Elizabeth!” I sputtered. “How did that go?”
“Not well. But she has no choice, legally. Now the house is on the market, and it should sell for at least eight hundred thousand dollars, maybe more.”
“Whoa!”
“But what about Grandfather Mehan’s shrine?” Margaret asked. “Where’s that going to go?”
“Elizabeth is buying a condo in Boston, closer to the hospital. It’s only two bedrooms. But if she wants to turn one into your grandfather’s shrine, that’s up to her. Personally, I hope she doesn’t.” Mom looked in the mirror at me and concluded, “Enough is enough.”
At home in bed, I lay and thought for a long time about the events of that tumultuous day. Mom’s words echoed in my head: Enough is enough. Both Lowerys had gotten theirs. That was over, and it was, indeed, enough. I wouldn’t give much thought to either one of them ever again. Two items from my list had been accomplished.
But the third one loomed before me. It was a logical paradox—impossible to do; impossible not to do. I would need someone’s help to even attempt to accomplish it, someone who hadn’t been much help in my life up until now.
I would need Dad.
THE BASEMENT DWELLERS
During the following week, I put some of the steps of my complicated plan in place. Step one was to get Mom to allow me go to England with Dad. Margaret helped me out with that one. She supported my claims that I had talked to Mr. Wissler about an important research project, and I knew exactly what I was doing, and I would be all right. For my part, I made it clear that I was going no matter what, so Mom grudgingly agreed.
Step two was to call Dad. I timed the call for eleven a.m., just to make sure he was sober. He seemed really amazed to hear from me. “Martin? Is anything wrong? Is your mother okay?”
“Everybody’s okay. I do need your help, though.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Can the vacation manager take a vacation?”
“Sure.”
“When?”
“Whenever I want. As long as I don’t have an assignment.”
“Do you have one now?”
“No.”
“Do you have frequent-flyer miles?”
“About ten trillion. Why?”
“I need you to take me to England.”
“Where?”
“England. For three nights, more or less.”
After a long pause, he came back. “England. Uh, yeah, I have enough miles for that. Can you tell me why?”
“I can. I will. But not now. Okay? I’ll tell you on the way over.”
He finally answered, “Has your mother agreed to this?”
“Absolutely. Mom is on board.”
“She is? Well, what can I say then? It’ll be good to take in some of that British history. And it’ll be great to see you.”
“Can I come up there on the train?”
“Sure. Just call ahead. Either Uncle Bobby or I will pick you up at Penn Station, Newark. Okay?”
“Okay.”
By Tuesday morning, I was ready to go. I had packed enough clothes and stuff for three days. I included my tube of Brylcreem for luck. I also included a shirt that I had just purchased over the Internet. It was a vintage Arsenal football jersey, bright red with white sleeves. Then I went into the computer room, accessed my research files, and printed out everything I had ever learned about London and York, present and past.
I said goodbye to Mom and Margaret, promising to e-mail them and assuring them I would be back in a few days. Mom thought I was taking a trip related to one final independent study. She was right, as far as that went. Margaret knew that there was more to the trip, but she did not know exactly what. She gave me a bon voyage present, a small Sony voice recorder, explaining, “It’s what real interviewers use. It’ll make you look more official.”
I turned down an offer from Mom to drive me to the train station. I said that I preferred to walk, and she accepted that.
Things were clearly changing at home.
I left the house at four p.m., carrying a small suitcase in one hand and a large garbage bag in the other. Inside the bag was the Philco 20 Deluxe in its original box. I crossed Hightstown Road and walked through the train station parking lot. Then I climbed up the stairs to the train office, purchased my ticket, and stepped out onto the wooden platform to wait.
The first thing I saw was a short man in a blue suit standing and looking at me. He had on a red bow tie and wore wire-rimmed glasses. I said, “Mr. Wissler? Dave?”
“Hello, Martin. I hope this isn’t an unwelcome intrusion, but Margaret told me about your trip. I thought a letter from me might help open some doors.”
Mr. Wissler held out a piece of paper, so I set down my bags and took it. It was a very official-looking letter on Millennium Encyclopedia stationery. It said:
To whom it may concern:
Martin Conway has traveled to Great Britain to interview surviving members of the London Auxiliary Fire Service for a Millennium Encyclopedia feature titled “Their Finest Hour.”
It was signed by David S. Wissler, and it was decorated with a red circle on the lower left that felt bumpy to the touch. He explained, “I added a raised seal to the paper. The British love raised seals. I think they invented them.”
I took the letter. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“That was quite the treasure trove that you left for me, Martin. A historian’s dream, really.”
“Like time travel?”
“Indeed. Let me tell you what I’ve done with it since Tuesday.” We each took hold of one of my bags and moved them to the side. “I brought Daisy Traynor’s materials over to Princeton to have them authenticated by experts. I know many of the historians there. They’ve already analyzed the chemical compositions of the ink and paper, with some very exciting results. Based on your discovery, I think we will be rewriting an entire chapter of World War Two history. We will certainly be redefining the role of General Henry M. Lowery.”
Suddenly I thought about Mom. “Do you think my grandfather’s name will be part of it?”
Mr. Wissler looked troubled. “Well, he won’t be in the encyclopedia entry. I can promise you that. But perhaps someone at the university will want to write a more in-depth book about what happened.” He paused and shook his head. “No. There’s no perhaps about it. This is explosive stuff. There will definitely be a book, or books, about General Lowery’s secret negotiations with Von Dirksen. And your grandfather, whether he was involved or not, is mentioned in some of the papers. Apparently he helped set up some of the message drops. I’m sorry. I understand that this may be embarrassing to your family.”
I spotted the train in the distance. “My grandfather’s holy shrine in Brookline was about to get dismantled anyway.” I grabbed a bag in each hand. “Enough was enough.”
Mr. Wissler nodded his agreement.
“Honestly, Mr. Wissler, my life would have been much easier if Martin Mehan had not been a hero.”
“I know what you mean. We have a few heroes in our family, on my side and on my wife’s.” He backed away as the train pulled in. “Good luck on your trip, Martin. And thank you again.”
Dad came through admirably, as he always did when he was not drinking
. He and Uncle Bob met me at the train station. Dad handed me two tickets. “This is the best I could do. It’s coach class, I’m afraid.”
I assured him, “I don’t care about that.”
“We take off in about three hours. We fly all night and land at Gatwick in the morning.”
“Great.”
“Do you know what to do after that?”
“Yes. I have it all printed out. We take the Gatwick Express train to London, spend a few hours there, and then we take another train up to York.”
Dad smiled. “Okay. You’re the boss.”
My uncle Bob held out his hand, and I shook it. He said, “Good to see you again, Martin. It’s been too long.”
“Good to see you, too.”
Uncle Bob is a burly, hairy guy, with watery eyes. By habit, I suppose, he grabbed my suitcase. Then he asked, “What’s in the garbage bag?”
“It’s an antique radio. A Philco 20 Deluxe.”
“Cool. How valuable is it?”
“To me, it’s the most valuable thing on earth.”
“Wow. That’s pretty valuable. Is it going with you to England?”
“Yes.”
“Gatwick Airport?”
“Right. And then up to York. That’s where I’ll really need it, up in York.”
Uncle Bob thought for a moment. “York’s closer to Manchester Airport. Listen: If you really don’t need this until you get to York, I can have it delivered there directly. Then you won’t have to donkey it around.”
I looked at Dad. “I won’t need any of this stuff until we get to York. Not the radio; not anything in my suitcase. How about you?”
“We’re going to be in York the first night, right?”
“Yeah.”
“No. I won’t need anything, either.”
Uncle Bob made a note on an index card. “Then you’ll see all this stuff at your hotel. You got the address, Martin?”
I pulled out my sheaf of papers. “We’re staying at a bed-and-breakfast hotel called the Wayfarer. Here’s the information.” Uncle Bob copied it carefully. He told me, “I’ll walk these through security myself. I’ll put ‘Lost Luggage’ labels on them and the airline will treat them like gold. They’ll deliver them right to the door of your final destination, with their apologies.”