The Way to Schenectady

by Richard Scrimger

  “Were they?” He crawled back into his hiding place.

  I put a bag of clothes on top of him. “Sorry,” I said. “Now, remember, when we get going, don’t make a sound. Not a sound. Do you understand?”

  “Actually, I am kind of tired. I’ll probably go to sleep,” he said.

  He wasn’t the only tired one. As we pulled out of our picnic spot, Bill yawned and Bernie wore that folded-in look. He was in that place where babies go before they fall asleep.

  “How many donuts did you have?” Bernie asked me.

  “I don’t know – one or two,” I said.

  Grandma turned around in the front seat to look at me.

  “Or three or four,” I said quickly. I’d forgotten the ones I put in my pocket for Marty.

  “Hog,” said Bill from the backseat. This was for Dad’s sake. He knew I had taken them for Marty.

  “Am not,” I said. “And anyway, how many donuts did you have?”

  “Only two.”

  “I had five,” said Bernie sleepily.

  “Hog,” Bill and I said together. Bernie smiled smugly and settled back in his car seat. A happy hog.

  Dad put one of his tapes in the deck. Oklahoma! Bernie fell asleep. The car filled with music. The highway and the afternoon stretched out ahead. My eyelids started to droop. I heard Dad and Grandma talking in the front.

  “Go on,” he said. “I don’t mind, and they’re all asleep.”

  “No,” said Grandma. Her voice sounded a little tight.

  “I’m not asleep,” I tried to say, but the words fell together like a stack of cards toppling to the floor. My head rested against the window.

  When I woke up, yawning, the car smelled of smoke.

  “Is there a fire?” I asked.

  Grandma looked out the window.

  “There was,” Dad explained over his shoulder, “but it’s out now.”

  The man at the border crossing leaned out of his booth and asked us where we were going and why, and for how long. Then he asked our names and how old we were. He wanted to know if I liked ice hockey, which I sort of do, and if Bill spoke French, which he sort of doesn’t. I expected a snort of impatience from Grandma, but she kept her temper very well.

  “That’s all then; enjoy your holiday,” said the man, waving and returning to his booth. There was no one behind us.

  “He suspected us,” I said, “didn’t he? He asked a lot of questions.”

  “He was just lonely,” Grandma said.

  How she could be so sure? I thought back to her apartment. It is pretty small, too, like the man’s booth, and there isn’t a lot of traffic going by. She must feel like that man a lot of the time.

  Grandma hadn’t always been lonely, of course. She and Grandpa used to live in a house with a hill in the backyard, and roses under glass jars in the garden. I was little, barely older than Bernie is now, and Bill was just a baby, and Grandma would say things like, “Have you finished with that section of the newspaper yet?” And Grandpa would say, “No.” He was very old, and spent most of his day on the couch.

  Before that Grandma had Mom living with her. She wouldn’t have been lonely then. I’m never lonely with Mom. It’s nice when it’s just the two of us, which it isn’t very often. We go out to lunch and put on lipstick and talk about the things we would do if we had a million dollars. On the way back home from lunch, we stop for a swing in the park. And then we go home and have a cup of tea. It’s not as exciting as when I’m with Dad. Nothing burns down. Nothing breaks. I never have to run, or shout, or save anyone from drowning. But it’s really, really nice. We’re the only two girls in the house, after all.

  I wish Mom was around more. I read once – it was in the doctor’s office – about a man with a hole in his heart. Actually, I think the article was “Man with Hole in Heart Rescues Baby from Inferno.” The man looked normal, but he had this teeny pin-sized hole in his heart, which, he said, made him feel empty – not all the time, just sometimes. I really identified with that man because I feel empty, too, sometimes, as if my heart has a hole in it where Mom should be. Sounds stupid, I know, and selfish because I have a Mom, and she does important things. I get to see her. Just not as much as I want.

  Odd to think about Grandma feeling lonely. I’d always figured that she enjoyed leading an ornery cornery life all by herself. But I guess being mean and grumpy is just a habit. A bad habit, like smoking.

  Grandma isn’t going to quit smoking.

  We drove in silence through the pretty countryside. Soon we were in hills, up and down, with the sun sinking behind the ones on our right. “How’s our schedule, Jane?” Dad asked me. “Should we look for a place to stop soon?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “It’s only four o’clock.” The farther we went today, the earlier we’d get to Auntie Vera’s tomorrow.

  “Did you reserve a place to stay?” Grandma demanded.

  “No,” said Dad.

  “Why not?”

  “This is Watertown,” I said. “We could get to Sackets, or even Pulaski.”

  “Relax, Mother-in-law. Be flexible. Be open to new experiences.”

  Grandma didn’t say anything. I was working out how long it would take us to go from Pulaski to Schenectady, and then how long from Schenectady to Pittsfield, when Marty started to snore. Or maybe he didn’t start; maybe he’d been snoring all along. But he started snoring loud. I knew what it was as soon as I heard it: a piercing, high-pitched rush of air.

  For a second no one said anything. “Bill?” Dad darted a look over his shoulder. The van swooped like a swallow. “Bill? Is that you?”

  I turned around. Bill was doing his best to help. He lay still in the very back seat, with his eyes closed and his mouth open, pretending to snore. I thought hard.

  “Maybe … maybe we shouldn’t wake him,” I whispered.

  Another snore. Another swoop. “He sounds horrible,” said Dad. “Like a jet engine taking off. It can’t be healthy. Bill! Hey, Bill!”

  Darn. I thought again. “I don’t feel well,” I said.

  It hurt to say it. If we stopped now, even for a few minutes, we’d stay the night. We wouldn’t keep going to Pulaski. We’d be that much further behind schedule. I gritted my teeth. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

  Marty taxied down the runway again.

  “Oh, Oh, Oh. I really have to go,” I said.

  “That rhymes,” said Bernie. “Doesn’t it?”

  “There’s a hotel!” I shrieked. “I see it.”

  “You know, I think I would like to use a bathroom, too,” said Grandma.

  “Not me,” said Bernie. “I don’t need one.”

  “All right.” Dad slowed down and changed lanes. “I guess we can stay here,” he said.

  I relaxed – slightly. All I had to worry about now was getting Marty out of the van without anyone seeing him.

  8

  Dead Body

  Grandma was helpful when we were getting ready to unpack the van. Dad wanted to carry our bags up to the housekeeping suite we had rented for the night, but she insisted on seeing it first.

  “I think Grandma’s right,” I said. “Check out the rooms. You, too, Bill and Bernie. I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “I thought you had to go the bathroom,” said Dad.

  “The feeling passed,” I explained. “You know how it does sometimes.”

  Dad frowned at me, but he led Grandma upstairs. Bill and Bernie followed, and I followed them – just as soon as I’d popped the trunk and released Marty. He woke up slowly and groggily.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Watertown, not too far from Schenectady. You have to go now,” I said. “But I want you to meet me back here tomorrow morning at seven o’clock. The parking lot. Seven o’clock. Okay?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ll have to find your own place to sleep,” I said. “I have an American five-dollar bill in my wallet. Do you want it?”

  He nodded.
r />   “Will you recognize the van?” I said.

  He nodded. “I’ve been under plenty of them,” he said.

  “Sleeping?”

  “No – repairs. I worked in a garage. Mind you, I’ve slept under them, too.”

  “Oh.”

  He yawned. He didn’t look much worse than he had this morning, but he’d looked pretty bad this morning. Before closing the trunk, I had to ask one thing. “Uh, Marty, you didn’t … while you were in the back there, you didn’t … you didn’t have to … go to the bathroom, or anything,” I said. “Did you?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  I closed the trunk and ran upstairs.

  It was like an apartment. There was a tiny kitchen, a living room with a prickly fold-out couch and a balcony, and two bedrooms – one for us kids, and one for Grandma. Dad eyed the prickly couch unhappily. Both bedrooms had locks. Dad put towels over the tops of the doors so that no one could close them by accident and lock themselves in a room without a key or a grown-up. Once in Orlando Bill and I had closed the adjoining door on Bernie, who was by himself in Mom and Dad’s room along with the wallets and keys. Dad had not forgotten.

  I didn’t unpack except for my toothbrush and pajamas. I zipped up my suitcase again, and put my travel case on top of it.

  Bill already had his bathing suit on. And his mask and snorkel. And fins. Diver Bill, ready to explore another alien environment.

  “There’s no pool here,” I said.

  “Sure there is, Miss Smarty-pants. This is Watertown, right?”

  “So?”

  “So hotels come with pools. Pools of water.”

  “Gee, what do hotels come with in Washington? Washing machines?”

  He frowned behind his mask.

  “In Denver, do the hotels have dens?” I asked. “In Helsinki, do they all have sinks?”

  He was trying to frown, but he couldn’t keep it up. “Maybe. And guess what they have in Hamburg?”

  “Or Bombay?” I said. “Or Flushing Meadows?”

  “Cows,” said Bernie, bouncing up and down on the bed. “Point for me.” There was a picture on the wall, with cows in it.

  “We’re not playing that game anymore,” I said.

  “Dad,” Bill called to my father in the other room, “is there a pool in this hotel?”

  “Sorry, son.”

  “Told you,” I said.

  “Oh, dear,” said Grandma. She was outside on the little balcony. “There’s a dead body.”

  “Point for Grandma,” said Bernie.

  I went outside on the balcony. It smelt like rain was coming. From up here on the second floor, I could see a bunch of cars rusting quietly in a gravel lot. None of them had any tires. On the other side was a billboard advertising a career in the army, BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE.

  Not an attractive view, and the body didn’t help. It really looked dead. I’ve seen enough of them on TV to know what they look like. Shapeless and small, a pile of old clothes lying on the ground. There was a newspaper covering its head. When it blew away, I thought I’d faint.

  Oh, no. Oh, no. It was Marty – lying there and not moving. He’d collapsed. Was he … I felt ill. I felt like I was about to cry.

  Grandma stood beside me. I could smell the powder she puts on. Old lady smell.

  “There, there,” she said.

  Her words didn’t register. The first kind ones I could remember my grandmother saying to me, and I was too preoccupied to notice. “Is he really dead?” I said. “Maybe we should check.”

  I watched closely. A breeze came up to ruffle Marty’s clothes and the newspapers beside his head. It began to rain. I felt it. So did Marty. He moved. He struggled up into a sitting position, then used a rusted car to lean on while he pulled himself to his feet. I sighed with relief. He reached into his pocket and took out the donut I’d given him.

  “Jane, are you all right?” The rain beaded like diamonds in Grandma’s fine silver hair.

  “Yes, I’m okay,” I said. “I’m great.”

  Bill came outside to check. “Is it really a – hey, wait a minute.” He’d recognized Marty. “Isn’t that …” His voice trailed away.

  “What?” asked Grandma.

  “Nothing,” said Bill.

  Marty wandered away. From up here he looked even smaller than usual.

  “Come on,” I said, dragging Bill inside.

  I don’t understand Mom when she says how sick she is of hotels. I couldn’t get sick of hotels if I lived in them forever. Imagine an eternity of room service, of wrapping all the big towels around you, of bouncing on all the beds, and never having to tidy up. Imagine an eternity of roast chicken dinners in a fancy dining room, with cream gravy and mashed potatoes, and ice cream sundaes for dessert. I can hardly bear to think about it – it’s too beautiful.

  Ah, well, I determined to make the most of my own heavenly moment in the Watertown Inn. “Butterscotch sundae,” I said to the waitress, who gave me a smile and said she understood, dearie, and would make it herself, extra specially, with all the hot butterscotch sauce she could find.

  “Chocolate sundae,” said Bill, avidly. He licked his lips in anticipation.

  “I feel sick,” said Bernie.

  “Too sick for ice cream?” I asked incredulously. He nodded.

  Dad reached across the table and put his hand on Bernie’s forehead. “Hot,” he said.

  I felt my own forehead. Some of my hair had come out of the barrettes I use to keep it in place. I repinned it.

  “Is Bernard going to be sick?” asked Grandma.

  Dad ignored her. “Jane, Bill, I’m going to take Bernie up to the room. Okay? You stay here and eat your ice cream. Come on, Bernie. Come with Daddy.” He gathered him up in his arms. The way Bernie’s head flopped against Dad’s chest and the way his little arms went instinctively around Dad’s neck told me, more clearly than any thermometer, that he was a sick little guy. “Night night,” he said to everyone. His cheeks were red. His eyes were closed.

  Then the waitress came with the ice cream, and I forgot about Bernie. The whole world came down to a white china bowl, a teaspoon, and a mouthful of delight. Paradise passed in a waking dream of sweet fulfillment.

  “My goodness, William, anyone would think you were in a race,” said Grandma.

  I looked up absently. Bill, of course, was finished his dessert. Grandma frowned at him over an almost full cup of coffee.

  “Can I go?” he asked.

  My bowl was barely touched. No point in hurrying through paradise. I always eat slowly. Why wait all afternoon for dinner, and then toss it down like a couple of aspirin?

  “Can I go back to base now, Grandma? I mean, to the room?”

  “By yourself?”

  “Affirmative,” he said. “There are clear markers. I’ll be fine. I know where it is. I’m ten years old, for heaven’s sake.”

  She waved her hand. “Make sure you go straight up to the room.” He saluted and disappeared – another dangerous mission for Captain Billy. I went back to my dessert. More time passed.

  The restaurant was in the downstairs part of the inn, a big room with plants on the ceiling and a row of windows. From our table you could see the street. Imagine my surprise when, as the last melted drips of ice cream and butterscotch were gliding slowly down my throat, I glanced up at the windows and saw a familiar face.

  Grandma was on her feet. “Jane, that’s it. You’re finished. I don’t think they’ll have to wash that bowl now. Or the spoon. They can just put them back in the rack and use them again on another ice cream lover.”

  “What’s Bill doing out there?” I said.

  “Where?”

  “Out there. He was at the window beside that empty booth … just a second ago. Then he walked away down the street.”

  Grandma frowned, piling a whole rack of V-shaped wrinkles between her eyes.

  “Should we go and get him?” I said. “He’s probably lost.” For an interplanetary explorer, Bill get
s lost very easily.

  The waitress came up. “Is something wrong?” she asked Grandma.

  “It’s Bill,” I answered for her. “He’s outside and he may be lost.”

  “Your brother? The chocolate sundae?”

  “Yes.”

  “Door’s over there,” she said. “I’ll take care of your check. What room are you in?”

  Grandma blinked. “I don’t remember,” she said.

  “Neither did Bill,” I said.

  9

  Not Quite Romeo and Juliet

  When we got outside, there was no sign of him. “Come on,” I told Grandma, and pulled her down the street.

  “Where are we going?” asked Grandma.

  “We’re following Bill,” I answered. “I think he got lost on his way to the room. So he left the hotel and is now walking around it, trying to find the room from the outside.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he’s Bill. Why would he eat a chocolate sundae in two bites?”

  Grandma couldn’t answer that one.

  “I don’t think Bill could be here,” she said. We were around the back of the hotel, in a fenced-off area with parked vans and garbage cans and a smell I recognized as lobster bisque. I’d had it as an appetizer less than an hour before.

  “You’re probably right,” I said. Then, over top of the wooden fence, I saw the same billboard I had seen earlier that afternoon. BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE. Pictures of people in jeeps, in tanks, in parachutes. In control. The girl driving the jeep had no hair.

  The window of our room was nearby, but where? I was pulling Grandma toward the end of the fence when I heard Bill’s voice. I froze. So did Grandma.

  “Help!” Bill shouted. “Help me, Dad!” It came from up ahead of us. We hurried toward the sound.

  Dad’s voice was fainter than Bill’s, but audible. “Bill!” he shouted. “Where are Grandma and Jane?”

  “I’m lost!” shouted Bill.

  “What?” shouted Dad.

  “I’m lost!” shouted Bill. “Lost. I can’t find the room.”

  “Where are Grandma and Jane?”

  “I don’t know. Can you come down and get me now?”