The Way to Schenectady

by Richard Scrimger

  “Do you have to go to the bathroom, Bill?” I said. “It’ll be another hour and a half until we stop for lunch.”

  He stuck out his tongue. I sipped my pop. Root beer.

  And then a pile of clothes spoke to us. At least that’s what I thought at the time. A huddle of old clothes heaped against the back wall of the gas station.

  “Oh, no,” it said. Or possibly, “Oh, woe.” I wasn’t paying close attention to the choice of words. The idea of an animated pile of rags was more interesting than what it was saying. The voice went on, “So thirsty. So far to go. How am I going to get there?”

  I shrank back against Bill. I’d heard of people who could make it sound like something across the room was talking. Throwing their voice, they call it. I wondered if someone was throwing his voice into a pile of dirty clothes.

  And then the pile sat up. And it wasn’t laundry anymore. It was a man.

  A small, bumpy-faced man, with white hair and white eyebrows that went up in little points, like paper hats, or that French accent I can never remember the name of.

  A small, skin-and-bones man, with a hole in one of his running shoes. A crinkly-eyed man, who climbed to his feet with effort, as if it were a long way up – which it wasn’t – and stared at us.

  A stranger. They keep telling us about strangers in school, and it would be hard to imagine a stranger stranger than this one. I was surprised to see him appear from nothing, but I was more surprised than scared. Maybe because he was smaller than I was. Maybe because he’d been crying.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Bill’s mouth was open. No sound came out of it.

  “Do you … want some root beer?” I asked the stranger.

  His chin moved sideways when he ducked his head. A tiny man, with nervous, jerky motions, like a bird’s.

  “You said you were thirsty.” I put the can in his hand and watched him drink. His fingernails were long and dirty. He finished my root beer and licked his lips.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much. When one person shares, two are enriched.” A smile flickered across his face like summer lightning. A good smile. I felt better, seeing the smile, knowing it was for me. I felt I had done something worthwhile.

  “I’m Jane Peeler,” I said.

  “Thank you, Jane Peeler. I’m Marty Oberdorf.” He had an old man’s voice, high-pitched and thin.

  “Pleased to meet you.” I shook hands. His was dry and firm.

  “And this is my little brother Bill.”

  Bill shook hands, too. “Nice day,” he said.

  Marty started to cry again.

  Usually I hate it when grown-ups cry. So embarrassing. Bridget’s mom cried during the movie Titanic. Like it was a surprise the boat sank. I was sitting with Bridget, and we both pretended we didn’t know her. But, somehow, Marty crying wasn’t so bad. He wasn’t much of a grown-up – however old he was, he wasn’t any bigger than we were. And besides, I’d already helped him.

  “What is it?” I asked. I was going to put my arm around him, but then I thought I wouldn’t.

  “My little brother is dead,” he said.

  I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” I said finally.

  “We weren’t friends,” he said. “Not since we were kids. He got married, and started a business. I went traveling. I’ve been all over the world. And I was in Toronto yesterday …”

  “We’re from Toronto,” said Bill.

  “And I saw a newspaper from home. From New York. And it had my brother’s picture in it. I hadn’t seen him in years. He looked good in the picture: handsome, respectable. An important man. It was like I was seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time. And, do you know, I was proud of my brother.”

  Well, of course, I knew what was coming.

  “And he’s dead,” said Marty, his eyes filming over. “That’s why his picture was in the paper. He’s dead, and the family is having a memorial service for him.”

  Bill offered Marty the rest of his pop. An unusual gesture for Bill. Usually when he offers you something, it’s because he doesn’t want it, or because there’s a worm in it.

  There was a big trash container nearby. Marty tossed my can into it, and took Bill’s. “I haven’t been home in years,” he said. “I want to go to the service, but I don’t know how I can get to Schenectady. I have no money. I tried to hitchhike, but no one would give me a ride. So I walked. I walked all day. I got here last night, and I fell asleep. And now I will never get home in time.” He swallowed, which was funny because he hadn’t taken a sip of Bill’s drink yet. “It’s just as well,” he said. “I am different. I’m not like them. I’m a failure. They wouldn’t want to see me. How could I face my brother’s wife? My nephews? Big strong men, my nephews. My brother was big, too. I was always the runt.”

  An idea was coming. That’s how it works for me. Some people go out looking, as if ideas were gold, or the Northwest Passage. Not me. I get bitten by an idea, as if it were a bug. The idea finds me. This one flitted over the surface of my mind, a mosquito that wouldn’t land. Here was somebody who needed to get home. Could I … could we … I wondered if …

  Marty reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of newsprint. “I tore out the article,” he said.

  I didn’t look at it. There wasn’t time. “Schenectady,” I said. “I know that city from the map. It’s in New York State. Isn’t it?”

  Marty nodded.

  “Near the Massachusetts border?”

  He nodded again.

  “We are driving to Massachusetts,” I said.

  Bill’s eyes widened. He knew what I was thinking. “Dad wouldn’t even let me bring the gerbils along,” he said in a whisper. “Marty is a lot bigger than a gerbil.”

  “We won’t tell Dad,” I said.

  If Bill’s eyes widened any more, they would roll right out of his head and go splat on the pavement. “How are you going to get away with it?” he asked.

  Marty was following our conversation anxiously, his head snapping back and forth as if Bill and I were playing tennis. “What is going to happen?” Marty asked.

  “Do you want to go to your brother’s memorial service?” I said. “Do you want to go home?”

  “Yes,” said Marty. He swallowed again.

  “Good,” I said.

  We didn’t have much time. Dad would be finished with Bernie’s diaper by now, and Grandma with her cigarette. We had to move right away.

  “I mean, no,” said Marty. He turned away, and slumped against the wall.

  A thought struck me. Getting Marty home would take time. Not too much time, because Schenectady was practically on the way to Auntie Vera’s. But my plan was adding hours to our trip. How many hours? I’d told Mom we wouldn’t be late.

  Now, suddenly, I didn’t want to take Marty with us.

  “You know what he is?” said Bill in a whisper. “You know what Marty is, really?”

  “No,” I said. I was ready to go back to the van without him.

  “He’s an alien,” said Bill.

  “Yes,” Marty agreed. “I am an alien. That’s exactly what I am.”

  “An alien from … Schenectady,” Bill said, savoring the last word. “What a great sounding place. Anything could come from Schenectady.”

  I took the newspaper clipping from Marty’s outstretched hand, and read it quickly. Tobias Oberdorf had died at the age of sixty-eight, which struck me as awfully old to be someone’s little brother. I wondered if Marty had ever thought, when he was my age, that his little brother would someday be old enough to leave a grieving widow, Marie; a son, who was an ex-Mr. Olympia New York State; and a whole bunch of cousins, who were prominent in the church community. And that was not all.

  “Listen to this,” I said to Bill. “ ‘An elder brother, Martin Oberdorf, passed long ago from the family circle, but not from our hearts,’ ” I read. “ ‘Old wounds can still be healed.’ ”

  Marty groaned.

  “We�
��ve got to get him home,” I said to Bill, putting the clipping in my pocket.

  It was the right thing to do. When you know something is right, you have to act on the knowledge, or else you’re not doing the right thing. Mom said that. Come to think of it, Mom’s job was all about getting people homes.

  I so want to be like her. That was why I’d dyed my hair last week. My own hair is dark, like chocolate, and Mom’s is almost red: chestnut, she calls it. And the label on the hair dye in the drugstore read CHESTNUT RED TINT. “I have to try it,” I told Bridget, who frowned at the other dye we were considering – purple – and said,

  “I thought chestnuts were brown.”

  If Marty slowed us down, well, Mom would have to wait. I was pretty sure we’d still be in time for the show.

  “Get up, Marty,” I said. “You walked all the way here. Of course you want to go home.”

  “But I’m no good. They don’t want to see me.”

  “We’re going to get you home,” I said. “We’re going to get you to -”

  “Schenectady,” said Bill. He loved the word. His eyes lit up. “His native planet! Schenectady, the world of Oberdorfs.”

  I was glad that Bill was enthusiastic. My plan couldn’t work without him.

  Marty sniffed.

  “Listen, both of you,” I said. “Here’s what I want you to do.”

  I was relieved to see Grandma stubbing out her cigarette when I got round to the front of the gas station. A lot of time seemed to have passed since we’d stopped. Dad and Bernie were struggling in the middle seat of the van, trying to get the seat belt over Bernie’s shoulders. I sauntered over casually. I wanted to look behind me to check that Marty and Bill were in position, but there was no point in making a plan and then not following it. I kept walking.

  “Help!” A bit faint, but it came from the right spot. “Help!” Louder now, with more feeling in it. “Help, Dad! Help, Grandma!”

  Now I risked a look – not at Bill, who was stuck to the barbed-wire fence on the far side of the gas station – but behind me. Marty peered around the corner, by the washroom door. So far, so good.

  “What the …” said Dad, somewhere between alarmed and angry.

  “Help!” Bill sounded like he was in trouble. And, of course, he was in trouble because he’s not supposed to climb on other people’s property. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but I needed a diversion, so he agreed. He knows that there are times when he has to do what I say. After all, he’s my little brother. I suppose it’ll be the same when I’m seventy and he’s sixty-eight. Right then he sounded as if he was about to fall off the fence.

  “Hang on, Bill!” shouted Dad. He abandoned Bernie and hurried toward the fence. Grandma was moving, too. All according to plan. The sliding door of the van was open. I climbed in and stood over Bernie.

  “Let me strap you in,” I said. “Then we’ll play hide-and-seek.” My plan was to give Marty the signal when Bernie covered his eyes.

  “Okay.” Bernie liked hide-and-seek. “You hide your eyes first,” he said.

  That wasn’t part of the plan. “No, Bernie. You hide yours first.”

  “You.”

  “YOU.”

  “YOU!”

  “Bernie,” I said. I could see Marty edging out from the cover of the gas station. A small man moving carefully. “Bernie,” I said, “let’s do it my way. There isn’t much time.”

  “NO.”

  My plan was starting to unravel. Bernie wouldn’t shut his eyes. I looked around and saw, to my horror, that two strangers had got out of their jeep and were hurrying over to help Bill. An elderly couple. White hair, white shoes. Shirts with flowers on them. The woman was clutching a half-eaten donut. The man reached up and grabbed Bill’s ankle.

  “Careful, Henry,” called the woman.

  My plan unraveled further. Dad stopped running. Bill was putting up a fight, but the man was stronger. He had Bill by the legs now.

  “Come on down, son,” he said.

  “Thanks!” Dad called out, checking over his shoulder to see what Bernie was up to. “Thank you so much!”

  “Isn’t it providential that we decided to stop here for gas?” said the woman.

  I clenched my teeth. It wasn’t providential at all. Grandma was heading back to the van. My plan wasn’t going to work. All I’d done was waste time and get Bill in trouble. Through the window of the van I saw Marty stop. His shoulders slumped.

  Grandma had her hand on the front door. Dad marched to the van, looking relieved and angry. Bill shuffled slowly after him, looking apprehensive.

  Another idea bit me – just a little bite, a fleabite of an idea. I moved fast.

  “What was that click noise?” Bernie asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I lied. Don’t run away, Marty, I thought. Stick around for another minute. Just one more minute. We’ll drive right past you. Just wait.

  Grandma got in. Dad got in. Bill got in. Dad started the engine, and drove away from the gas pumps.

  The light in the roof of the van stayed on. The warning bell rang. The robot voice that comes from the car company told us that a door was ajar.

  Dad stopped the van.

  5

  Something Stinks

  “Check your doors, please,” said Dad. He tried his. Grandma tried hers. The light stayed on. The alarm kept ringing ding ding ding. A helpful diagram of our van was lit up on the dashboard.

  “It’s the back,” I said, pointing behind me. “It’s open.”

  “How on earth did that happen?” asked Dad.

  Because I pushed the release button myself. But I didn’t say that out loud.

  “I’ll close it,” I said, opening the side door and climbing out.

  Bill stared at me.

  We were stopped right beside the gas station. I swung the big trunk door open wide. Suitcases, bags full of laundry, and beach toys reached almost to the roof. I stood on tiptoe, but couldn’t see over them.

  “Jane!” called Dad. “Can you close the door?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m just arranging our stuff back here.”

  Marty was at my elbow. I shoved a bag out of the way, making a space in our trunk area. Good thing he was so small.

  “Do you want help?” Dad said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Can I have something to eat?” asked Bill.

  “No,” said Dad. “I’m upset with you.”

  Bill sighed.

  “Can I?” said Bernie.

  “Me, too,” I said. Bill turned around to glare at me from the middle seat. Dad tossed a package over his shoulder. It flew all the way to the backseat, landing in my lap. Mints. I tore open the package and leaned forward to give one to Bernie, dropping one by accident in Bill’s lap.

  “Thanks,” said Bernie.

  Bill thanked me with his eyes.

  “Feeling better, Mother-in-law?” Dad asked, maybe because she was leaning more comfortably against the back of the seat.

  “Better than what?” She frowned at Dad.

  We drove on in minty silence.

  “Horsies,” said Bernie, pointing. I turned. Horses, all right. We had left the suburbs behind, and were out in farm country. The horses stood in the middle of a field, with their heads down, eating grass so green it looked plastic. The red barn in the background looked plastic, too.

  “Good, Bernie,” I said. “And what do horsies say?”

  “I want another mint.”

  In the car, nothing happens sooner than you think it’s going to. You imagine everything long before you see it; you anticipate it, think about it, consider it from all sides, and then – only then – does it loom on the horizon: a cloud no bigger than your hand, but the rain’s still a long way off. I’m talking about lunch. We’d been driving for what seemed like hours and hours and hours. I was hungry. Worrying about Marty, thinking about all the things I wanted to tell Mom, organizing games – these things tired me out. But when I checked my watch, it was only eleven thirt
y. No way were we going to stop for at least another half hour. I went over the lunch routine one more time. I knew where the picnic hamper was, and what was in it. I knew where the bag with the sunscreen and bandaids was. I knew where all the hats were. What else would we need for lunch? Drinking boxes? In the hamper. Handiwipes? In the diaper bag and the sunscreen bag.

  And on the subject of diapers … no, it wasn’t quite like a diaper. But there was something. I wondered what it could be. Familiar and strange at the same time. Not pleasant. Not pleasant at all. I was in the very back seat. It was coming from behind me. A very peculiar … a very pungent … I guess you’d have to call it a kind of … well, a kind of …

  “Something stinks,” said Grandma.

  Marty. I guess if you hadn’t had a bath in a while, and you were wearing clothes you’d slept in for a few nights, you’d start to smell a bit. It wasn’t so bad in the open air behind the gas station, but in the van, with the windows closed, Marty was free to tell his own story.

  Bill was sitting in the middle seat beside Bernie. Bernie was walking his stuffed monkey back and forth along the arm of his car seat. Bill turned around and looked at me anxiously. He recognized the smell all right.

  I craned my neck so I could see over the back of the seat, but there was no sign of Marty. He was buried beneath our pile of gear.

  “I don’t smell anything,” I said. “I do,” said Bernie. “But I don’t know what it is.”

  “I … don’t smell anything either,” said Bill. “Mind you, I have a stuffy nose.”

  What a coward. I glared at him.

  “Let’s open a window,” I said. “That should freshen things up.”

  Bill opened his window. I opened mine. Unfortunately, van windows open only about an inch. I guess the designers don’t want kids falling out.

  After a minute Grandma said, “It still stinks back there.”

  “You’re right. Yuck. It’s almost like something died,” said Dad.

  Bill and I looked at each other. “What if there is … a body in the car?” Bill asked. I gasped, but he went on quickly, “An alien body from the planet Schenectady – I mean, from another planet?”