Dad smiled. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Look!” I pointed to a road sign. “Odessa is coming up.” I reached into my travel case to find my map, and pulled out a square package. Not my Walkman, which I usually keep there, but the bottle of cologne that Bridget had given me for my last birthday. I kept it on my dresser. I couldn’t remember packing it. I must have put it in the case instead of the Walkman.
A lucky mistake. The bottle came with a sprayer. I pointed it at the ceiling of the van, and pressed down. And again.
A minute later Bill turned around with an expression of disgust on his face.
“What?” I whispered. “What?”
“Perfume?” He wrinkled up his nose. “What do you call that stuff?”
“Summer Nights,” I said. Actually, it smells kind of nice.
“Yuck,” he said.
“Better than Eau de Marty,” I whispered.
It took a little while for the perfume smell to spread through the van. We passed Odessa. Bernie fell asleep.
“Smells different in here now,” Dad commented. “Less like a morgue, more like perfume.” He tapped one of the gauges on the dashboard. “Hmm,” he said.
Grandma sniffed critically. “Charnel Number 5,” she muttered.
Dad laughed. Bill and I exchanged a relieved glance. The pavement changed. The wheels had been saying origami, origami, origami. Now they started saying Tweedledee, Tweedledee, Tweedledee.
“Almost time for lunch,” I said.
“Yes, when’s lunch?” Bill asked.
Dad sighed. “Next picnic area we pass, we’ll stop.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said.
The wheels went back to saying origami, origami, origami.
Bill turned around in his seat belt. “What if Marty gets thirsty? Or has to go to the bathroom?” he whispered.
I shrugged.
“What if he suffocates? Goes into a coma? What if he dies?”
Bill has such a morbid imagination.
“What if no one finds out he’s there,” I whispered, “and, thanks to us, he arrives in Schenectady and gets reunited with his family?”
“Someone will notice,” said Bill, turning away and closing his eyes.
“You know there’s a spider over your head,” I said. Bill didn’t open his eyes, but he was paying attention. I could tell. “It’s on a little thread of spiderweb attached to the seat-belt hook. Now it’s letting itself down on a thread,” I said softly. “Getting closer to your face.”
Bill won’t admit it, but he’s really scared of spiders. Me, I like them – even the big, hairy kind. It helps that they’re girls. I know we’ve got something in common. My friend Bridget and I formed the Spider Club in school last year. Bridget believes in reincarnation, and she’s convinced that she was a spider in a past life.
“The spider is right over your face now,” I said to Bill. “Can’t you feel the little legs brushing your cheek?” He couldn’t he himself. He squirmed out of the way, shuddering all over. Of course, there was no spider on the ceiling.
“Just kidding,” I said, with a light laugh.
He leaned back and punched me.
“Ouch!” I said.
“Just kidding,” he said, with a nasty chuckle.
The next sign at the side of the highway was a picture of picnic tables. LAKE VIEW it said underneath. “Dad, Dad, Dad!” we cried together. Bernie woke up. “Dad!” he said, even before his eyes were open.
“I see it,” Dad said.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
“Me, too,” said Bill and Bernie.
The noise of air rushing past our inch-open windows dropped dramatically. The car was suddenly quiet, poised, expectant. I don’t know about the boys, but I was thinking about hard-boiled eggs.
“Hungry,” said Marty, into the hush of awakened appetite.
Bill almost twisted his neck off, turning around so fast. I stared at him helplessly. The only thing I could think to do was cough.
“Something caught in my throat,” I said. I tried to make my voice sound like Marty’s – high and thin, and a bit raspy. “Sure am hungry,” I said again.
“Me, too,” Bill said. “I’m hungry, too.”
“I’m going to start with a hard-boiled egg,” I said, “and then go on to a cheese sandwich. And an apple. For dessert -”
“I brought the dessert,” Grandma said. “Made it myself this morning.”
“Great!” said Dad heartily, turning onto a gravel road lined with painted wooden fence posts. In a moment I saw the lake, like the sign told me I would.
“Great,” Bill and I echoed, very faintly.
I leaned back casually, and dropped the rest of the package of mints over the back of the seat behind me. They would help Marty stave off hunger until we could figure out a way to feed him.
6
“You Shouldn’t Have!”
I must say, reincarnation sounds like a great idea. I wonder if I could come back as an owl because they get to stay up late, and they never have to do any science homework. Maybe Grandma could come back as a cook. No way she’s ever been a cook in any long-ago past life. Make that any of her lives at all, including this one.
Fortunately, I have not had to eat many meals at her apartment. She’s not very – is “hospitable” the word I want? Sounds like it might mean something else, something about being sick, but whatever the word is that means being a good hostess and making sure everyone is having the time of their lives at your place, Grandma isn’t that.
Last time we were there for dinner was ages ago, and dessert was a pale gray confection, like a shovelful of cement poured into a loaf pan and left to harden. Charlotte russe she called it, speaking with some kind of accent. Mom and Dad smiled grimly, and Bill and I dug in because it, well, it smelled like it might be sweet anyway. I don’t know what nationality Charlotte was, but she couldn’t make dessert. The stuff stuck to my fork, then my hands, then my mouth. Days later I was still digging pieces of it out with my toothbrush. Bill started quickly, but even he didn’t finish his plateful. Lucky Bernie, he got to eat vegetables out of a jar.
I had to figure out a way to get food to Marty. We parked in a shady spot. The picnic hamper was under the backseat. While the others were getting out of the car and finding a picnic table with the best view, I slid out the hamper and opened it. I hunted around inside for something to give Marty. The sandwiches were wrapped up together. I found an egg and took it out.
“Psst, Marty,” I whispered. “Do you like eggs?” And, of course, that’s when Dad appeared at the door.
“What are you doing, Jane?” he asked.
“Getting lunch ready,” I said.
“And why are you holding that egg?”
I held it up. “This egg … um … made a noise. Like the chick inside was pecking its way out. I was wondering if it was alive. I was worried about it.”
“Jane, that’s a hard-boiled egg,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” I said.
Dad was staring down at me. I was on my knees on the floor of the van, wrestling with the picnic hamper. “Are you feeling okay?” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “Just fine.”
I pulled the hamper toward me and, at that moment, I heard Marty again.
“Egg,” he said loudly.
“– scuse me,” I said, quick as a flash. An inspiration. “Egg-scuse me, Dad,” I said. Loudly. “I burped.”
“I didn’t hear you,” said Dad.
“It was only a little burp,” I said.
“Let me carry the picnic hamper,” said Dad.
“Egg!” said Marty again.
“– cellent idea,” I said quickly. “An excellent idea, Dad. Here, let me slide it over to you.” I was thinking hard, racking my brain for useful words.
“Are you … well, Jane?” Dad asked. “It’s pretty hot.”
“Egg!”
“– stremely hot,” I finished for Marty. I was ready for that one. “But
I think I’m okay. Let’s get out of here, Dad. Before I start -”
“Bacon!” said Marty. Surprisingly.
I wiped my brow. “I mean, before I start baking to death! Whew!” I said.
Dad tucked the picnic hamper under one arm and put the other one around my shoulders. “You sure you’re feeling okay?” he said.
“You bet.”
So we all sat down around the table with the best view, and got out hard-boiled eggs and cheese sandwiches and buns and juice boxes. There wasn’t any chicken; I looked. Later I asked Dad what had happened to it, and he said he’d tried it and it tasted awful, even with the fire extinguisher foam washed off.
It was a busy meal for me. I had to invent reasons for going back to the van. Sunscreen, lip protector, map – and once, I said, because I wanted to check myself in the mirror. Dad stared and shook his head. I don’t usually forget things. I don’t usually have four eggs and two buns and two cheese sandwiches for lunch either. And three juice boxes.
“Pig,” said Bernie, as I reached into the hamper again.
“Could you put your plate in the garbage bin?” I asked him.
“Bossy pig!”
It was worth it to know that Marty was going to be okay for the next little while. “Thank you, Jane,” he told me when I brought the cheese sandwich. “Food in a hungry belly takes away fear.”
Bill was acting normal – for him, that is. The ground was quicksand, he claimed, and with every step he sank deeper and deeper. He bent over, walked on his knees, crawled.
I finally got him alone. “Crawl up to the van,” I whispered, “and give this bun to Marty.”
He was kneeling in a soft bowl of pine needles, near a rocky promontory. The sun was bright, but it was cool by the lake. He shook his head. “Negative, sir. I’ll sink over my head by the time I get there. It’s just suicide.” He sounded serious. Did he believe himself? Had he forgotten about Marty? Hard to say with Bill.
Grandma turned away to light a cigarette and lost the last half of her sandwich to an aggressive seagull.
“Ham those birds,” she said, but without any real bad feeling.
“Have another sandwich,” Dad offered.
“There’s no more,” said Bernie. “Jane ate them all.”
“Have some more grape juice.”
“I don’t want any grape juice.”
“Have some cheese,” I said.
“She doesn’t want any ham cheese,” Bill told me, in a gravelly Grandma voice.
We laughed. Dad told us to behave ourselves, but I could see there was a smile behind his stern expression, the way the sun is there behind the clouds even if you can’t see it directly.
“Very funny,” said Grandma. I couldn’t tell if the sun was there or not. Some clouds are darker than others.
“What’s for dessert?” asked Bill.
Grandma smiled grimly and opened her cooler. Took out the single dish. Laid it on the picnic table. And we all stared.
It lay on the middle of the picnic table, wobbling back and forth.
“I made it myself,” she said.
Bill took a step backward and sank to his knees. I didn’t know if he was praying, or if he’d just landed in the quicksand.
Dad said, “Mother-in-law, you shouldn’t have.”
She didn’t answer. She was looking better than she had in the car. More relaxed. The cigarette in her mouth probably helped.
Grandma had a big spoon in her hand. “Who wants the first serving?” she asked.
Silence.
Well, would you speak up if what you’d be getting was the first serving from a Jell-O mold in the shape of a fish? Stop, let me get this right. It was a fish – a wiggling, wobbling sea creature made out of lime-green Jell-O, with a poached egg in the middle where its heart would be.
“It’s alive!” said Bill. “Hey, it really is alive.” He prodded it with his finger.
“William!” said Grandma. “Hands off!”
A shiny black jeep pulled in to the picnic area. In it was an elderly couple. By the time the old lady emerged from behind the wheel, the old man had already unloaded deck chairs, checkered tablecloth, and barbecue grill.
Bernie climbed to his feet and pointed. “Flower lady,” he said.
Nobody paid attention. We were mesmerized by the dessert. I could hardly take my eyes off it. Glints of sunlight flashed on the edges of the mold. The fins moved back and forth, as if the fish were swimming in an unfamiliar element. A dessert to remember for the rest of our lives.
Dad’s smile was wide. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d swear he was actually enjoying the moment. How can grown-ups lie so convincingly? Practice, I guess. “What an astounding creation,” said Dad.
Well, that wasn’t quite a lie.
“It looks ‘ucky,” said Bernie.
That wasn’t a lie either. He put his hands behind his back as if he were afraid the fish would snap at him.
“Mind your manners,” said Dad. “Grandma worked hard to make you this … incredible dessert. You must be polite.”
She swung the serving spoon like an executioner’s ax. All our heads were on the block.
Help, I thought. I wanted something to happen. I didn’t want to eat the dessert, and I didn’t want to hurt Grandma’s feelings. I didn’t want to lie either. Mostly I didn’t want to eat the dessert.
Birds wheeled overhead, graceful and raucous. There was a large cloud coming up fast from across the lake, but it looked too puffy and white to be a rain cloud.
Grandma raised her hand. Dad’s smile wavered. Bill swallowed, nervously. I hid my eyes. I do it when I watch TV as the heroine’s friend is about to go into the room where the “Thing” is waiting for her. There was a sudden screeching, closer and louder than usual, and a flurry of activity. I peeked through my fingers and saw, to my surprise, a huge white bird on the center of the table. I couldn’t understand it. Then I realized that the lifelike dessert had been mistaken for a real fish, and been pounced on by a roving seagull, who was, naturally enough, confused. Hard to pick up a Jell-O mold in your beak.
The bird was noisy, angry, and soon gone. In its wake lay the mangled remains of what had been a fish, bleeding bright yellow blood from its heart.
“Did you see Grandma hit the bird?” whispered Bill.
“With her hand?”
“No, with her spoon. Whack! Right across its head.”
The old couple from the jeep came over, with sympathetic smiles. “Hello, again! You folks all right?” the woman asked. Flowers on her shirt, like Bernie had said. It took me a moment to recognize them as the people who’d helped Bill down from the gas station fence.
“Fine, thank you.” Dad turned with a smile. “A seagull took exception to my Mother-in-law’s dessert.”
“Pretty darn bold,” said the man.
“I thought it was an angel from heaven!” said the woman. “Swooping down in white like that! I said to Henry – this is Henry, by the way, and I’m Myrna. We’re from upstate New York, on vacation until we saw yesterday’s newspaper – I said to Henry, ‘That looks like an angel of God!’ Only he said, ‘It’s a bird, Myrna.’ He’s the practical type. I’m always more spiritual. I do parish work back home, St. George’s Episcopalian, and I often see the Hand of God in earthly events. When my lumbago started acting up last fall, I had to stay in bed, and a tree branch fell right across our front walk; might have killed me if I’d been outside, which I wasn’t. Do you see the Hand of God in earthly events, ma’am?” she said to Grandma.
“No,” said Grandma.
“You folks want some donuts?” said Henry. “We bought some on the highway. More than we can eat. Be happy to share.”
“Henry, what a marvelous idea! It’s so like you to be generous to people like these. People in distress. People in need.”
“Donuts.” Bernie and I looked at each other.
“Alien cuisine,” said Captain Billy.
“Too bad they’re across the quicksand,
” I said.
“It’s my duty to try them,” said Bill. “On my knees, if I have to.”
“A kind offer,” said Dad. “But we couldn’t take advantage -”
“Nonsense,” said the lady. “I was saying to Henry as we bought them, ‘Are these donuts really necessary?’ We don’t need them. So it’s almost as if they were meant for you folks. The Hand of God again.”
As if to underline her words, the puffy cloud rolled in front of the sun, and the sky darkened momentarily. We made our way toward the other picnic table. The wind was picking up, ruffling the edges of the checkered tablecloth.
“Thank you,” I said to the man. Henry.
“You’re welcome, my dear. Say, did your brother hurt his foot climbing that fence?”
I turned. Captain Bill was on his knees, struggling through the quicksand.
7
A Jet Plane Taking Off
I grabbed a couple of donuts – carefully choosing the ones without icing sugar – and waited for an opportunity to get back to the van.
The kind old lady, Myrna, wouldn’t let me go for the longest time. She babbled on about how much I reminded her of one of her grandchildren; we had the same perky smile and good manners, the same – ugh – sparkling wit. What do you say to something like that? “Thanks,” I mumbled, my mouth full of donut.
“Of course,” said Myrna, “Emma’s hair is dark, like my daughter’s, and yours is …”
“Chestnut,” I helped her.
“Is it really?”
“Like my mom’s.”
“You and Emma have so much in common. I really think the two of you would get along like a house on fire.”
Finally she left me alone. I saw an opportunity and snuck back to the van, getting the surprise of my life when I saw Marty sitting up in the seat.
“What are you doing?” I whispered. “Get your head down. We’ll be leaving soon.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “Right.”
I gave him a donut.
“I know that man and woman,” he said. “Where do I know them from?”
“The gas station,” I said. “They were at the gas station.”
The Way to Schenectady Page 4
