The Way to Schenectady

by Richard Scrimger

  “I’m locked out!” said Dad. “The balcony door slammed shut on me when I came out, and now I can’t get back in to the room. Come up here and get me out!”

  “I can’t” shouted Bill.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m lost!”

  Grandma snorted. I looked up and saw a ghost of a smile on her face.

  “Men,” I said, under my breath.

  “You said it, missy.”

  We came to the end of the fence, and found ourselves in the gravel lot full of rusting cars. Sunlight had faded at the end of the long summer day. No automobile traffic. No pedestrians. The streetscape behind the hotel was deserted, except for Dad and Bill shouting at each other. Dad was bending over the rail of the balcony, and gesturing extravagantly. Bill was looking up, with hope beginning to give way to doubt. Not quite Romeo and Juliet. Neither of them noticed us right away. Grandma stopped to look at one of the rusted cars.

  “Okay. Go around to the front door,” Dad was shouting at Bill. “And tell the woman at the desk to come up here right away with the key.”

  “Come up where?” said Bill. “What’s the room number?”

  Dad’s mouth opened wide. I could see his pink tongue gleaming from two floors down. “Don’t you know either?”

  “Bill!” I called. “Dad! We’re here!”

  “Jane!” Bill whirled around. Tears mingled with the chocolate syrup on his face. No longer the intrepid Captain Billy. Just a little lost boy in a strange town. “And Grandma. Am I ever glad to see you!” He ran toward us, gave me a hug, then threw his arms around Grandma. She looked startled. Tentatively she put her arms around his shoulders.

  “Jane!” Dad was waving at us. “Helen!”

  A first. I can’t remember the last time Dad called her Helen. She didn’t blink.

  “Where’s Bernie?” I called.

  “He’s sleeping. I can see him through the window. But I’m locked out. Can you come and get me please?”

  “I don’t have the room key,” called Grandma. “You took it, remember?”

  “Get another one from the desk.”

  “Yes, but what room number are we?”

  Dad stopped and stood still for a second. “You don’t know either?” he said.

  “Of course not.”

  “Doesn’t anyone know what room number we are?” he shouted at the heavens.

  I couldn’t keep it in any longer. “211,” I said.

  Bill sighed.

  “Thank you, Jane,” said Dad. “You are the girl with brain. Now get another key from the front desk and let me back in to the room.”

  “Okay.”

  “People actually live in these abandoned cars,” Grandma commented as we passed. “There are blankets and sleeping bags and tins of food.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said seriously. I thought about having a rusty old car for a home. Not what they dreamed about in social planning. At least Marty had a real home to go to.

  “Yes,” said Grandma. “It is too bad.”

  “You know,” said Bill, as we made our way down the gray carpeted corridor past room numbers 208 and 209 and 210, “these doors all look the same.”

  I didn’t say, Well, duh. Restraint. Instead I nodded sympathetically. “Sure do,” I said. Bill frowned and punched my arm, which is usually what he does when I say, Well, duh. Seems as if I can upset him just by being polite. Of course, I was in an incredibly superior position.

  The desk clerk, a perfumy lady who nodded while she talked, opened 211 for us, and nodded us all inside. Bernie was asleep in the middle of the big double bed.

  Dad was staring in at us, his face pressed to the glass of the balcony window. He looked funny. Bill and I burst out laughing when we saw him. The desk clerk looked startled, like she wasn’t used to kids laughing at their father. Bill ran over to let him in.

  “Thank you,” said Dad. “It’s a nice view, but you can get tired of it after a while.”

  “On behalf of the Watertown Inn, I’d like to apologize for your inconvenience,” said the desk clerk, nodding earnestly. Dad smiled and said the shoe was on the other foot. “On behalf of the Peeler family, I would like to apologize for the inconvenience to the management.”

  Grandma sniffed. “I’m a Collins,” she said.

  The desk clerk smiled nervously. “Well, if everything’s okay now,” she said.

  “Everything’s just fine.”

  “And if you decide to go out again later this evening, I’d suggest taking two keys,” said the desk clerk.

  Dad looked like he wanted to say, Well, duh. He didn’t. “Good idea,” said Dad.

  It started to rain again. Bill found a science show on TV. Grandma muttered something about going downstairs for a breath of air. Dad said, “Why not have your breath of air here?” but Grandma shook her head and headed out the door. I assumed she was going to get some tar and nicotine with her oxygen and nitrogen and whatever else there is in our air. Bernie woke up feeling much better. He and Dad played a gentle bouncing game until Bernie hurt his elbow. Dad gave him a cold cloth, and picked up the phone.

  On the TV a man in a white coat and thick glasses was giving us some unlikely sounding facts about crystals. Bill was ecstatic. It’s not all make-believe for him; he loves science, too. One of those boys with chemistry sets and singed eyebrows. He’s never happier than when he’s waiting for something to go off.

  “Yes, you could say we’ve had an eventful day,” said Dad into the phone.

  “Who is it?” I whispered to him.

  He was smiling. He moved his lips to make the word “Mom.” He listened to what she said, still smiling.

  “Let me talk to Mom,” I said.

  “Mom?” Bernie was bouncing on the bed again. He held the cold cloth to his elbow. The ends of the cloth dripped water as he bounced up and down. “Let me talk to her. Let me!”

  Smallest first is the rule in our house. I sighed and went back to the TV. Very suspicious, these science shows. I understand what they are saying, but I don’t believe a word of it. Bill was rapt. I wished I had a peanut, to see if I could throw it into his open mouth.

  “I’m better now,” said Bernie into the phone very fast. “Daddy got a ticket. I fell asleep. A bird ate Grandma’s dessert!”

  It’s exciting, and a bit sad, to hear your mother’s voice on the phone. She’s Mom, and she’s far away. “Hi,” I said.

  Mom called me honey and said I was the heroine of the hour for remembering the room number. I could feel her warmth through all the length of phone cord.

  “I miss you,” I said.

  She said she missed me, too.

  “I’m looking forward to The Music Man,” I said.

  She said she was, too.

  There was a question I wanted to ask her. “Mom, do you think it’s sad if someone gets separated from his family?”

  She didn’t reply right away.

  I went on. “If someone is separated from his brother, then he should try to get back and see him, shouldn’t he?”

  “Brother? Are you and Bill having a fight?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I’m talking about someone else. And if the brother is dead,” I went on, “the other brother should try to get to the funeral. Or the memorial service. Shouldn’t he?”

  “Jane, honey, what’s going on?”

  “I just wondered what you thought, Mom. It’s all about doing the right thing. I’m glad you agree with me. I think he should go, too. Even if it’s in Schenectady.”

  Mom asked if she could speak to Dad.

  “Hang on,” I said. “Bill wants to talk to you first.” He was standing at my elbow. “Bye, Mom,” I said. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  I woke up in the middle of the night because I heard a noise. “Who’s there?” I whispered. The curtains were drawn and it was as dark as the inside of your pocket. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Grandma snoring.” Dad’s voice came
from the living room. “Go back to sleep.”

  I listened. Sure enough, I could hear a faint sound like a distant waterfall. Not unpleasant. “Sounds kind of soothing,” I said. I lay back and pulled up the covers. Then the sound stopped. I waited and waited. My lungs hurt, and I found that I’d stopped breathing. After an eternity the waterfall started again.

  “Wow!” I said.

  “It’s the waiting that gets to you,” Dad said. “I’m having trouble sleeping, too. Mind you, this couch isn’t helping.”

  “Can’t you close the door to her room?”

  “It is closed. If she just snored regularly, like your mother, that would be fine. But the sound stops and I lie here waiting.”

  “I didn’t know Mom snored,” I said.

  “You used to crawl into bed with us when you were little. Don’t you remember? You’d hit your mom to make her stop.”

  I had a sudden memory of my parents’ bed. Not a picture, a sort of sense memory. I couldn’t see the scene, but I could remember the warmth of their bodies after the cold hallway, and the smell of the pajamas and sheets. I closed my eyes and smiled into the past. And then, I couldn’t help it, I felt a prickle at the corner of my eye. I closed my eyes, and let the tears slide down.

  10

  And I was Happy to Have Her

  I’ve read more than one book where the heroine has a foolproof method for getting up on time. If she wants to get up at seven, she turns round seven times before getting into bed, or says a special prayer to her guardian angel or the saint of the morning, whoever that is – not St. Kellogg of Battle Creek – or sleeps so that her body is in the seven o’clock position of the bed. Or something. My infallible method is an alarm clock. I’ve had the same one for years: a digital display in a bright red case, with seventeen jewels inside. It says so on the dial. Only my alarm clock wasn’t foolproof this morning because when I got up, it said 7:45. I must have forgotten to set it when I went to bed.

  Everyone else was already up. How could I have slept in? I bounced out of bed and went over to the mirror. Dad was drinking coffee. He brought his shirtsleeve up to his face. The shirt was wrinkled, and so was his nose.

  My hair looked okay – a little flat, but okay. Splashing came from our bathroom. “Who’s in there?” I asked.

  “Bill wanted an early-morning swim. He’s taking a bath in his bathing suit and snorkel.”

  Marty, I thought. Got to find Marty. I was already late for our meeting.

  “When are we leaving?” I said, brushing my hair.

  “Right away,” said Dad, the way he usually does. “After you have breakfast. Bernie’s eating and watching cartoons in Grandma’s room. She’s out having a smoke.”

  “Is something wrong, Dad? You look upset.”

  “This shirt smells awful. I’m sure it was clean when I packed it.”

  I decided to wear yesterday’s clothes.

  Bernie was in his pajamas eating a cheese Danish. I estimated that “right away” was going to be about fifteen minutes. I dressed in Grandma’s bathroom, took one Danish from the plate, and wrapped another one in a napkin.

  “I have to go down to the van,” I called to Dad.

  “Wait!” He came into the room. “What are you doing?”

  “I have to get something,” I explained. I made it deliberately vague, and looked down at the floor.

  “Oh.” I’m almost thirteen and Dad thought he understood. “Oh, okay,” he said, handing me the car keys.

  “Thanks, Dad.” I ran. Be there, Marty, I thought. Be there, be where I can find you. It was a fine, fresh, summer morning, with a little bit of a breeze to rustle the flags at the used-car lot across from the hotel, and shake last night’s rain from the trees. I checked the van – he wasn’t there. I even checked inside the van, thinking he may have found a way past the door locks, but he hadn’t. I ran around the hotel parking lot, breathing hard, cursing myself for oversleeping and Marty for not waiting, checking underneath all the cars and trucks. Nothing.

  I stood in front of our van and called his name loudly: “Marty!”

  Echoes rang. Birds flapped. Nothing else. I tried again, even louder: “MARTY!”

  Got a strange look from a passerby. I gave it one more try, filling my lungs, stretching my vocal chords, not caring who I disturbed, as long as I disturbed: “MARTY!!!!!”

  “Jane, there you are!”

  I jumped. “Bill, you startled me.”

  My little brother, frowning, wet-haired. “What’s going on? Dad and Grandma are wondering where you are. We’re getting ready to go.”

  “Bill, something terrible has happened. Marty has disappeared. I arranged to meet him here at seven o’clock, and … he’s gone. I’ve looked all over the parking lot.”

  “That’s too bad. Mind you, Marty did smell, didn’t he? Now, come on upstairs.”

  I stared. Was Bill just going to give up? “We have to find him,” I said. “There isn’t a lot of time. He could be anywhere.”

  Now it was his turn to stare at me. “Did you say we? And have to? And find him?”

  “Don’t you care about him at all? You cared yesterday. Planet Schenectady, remember? You helped me get him into the van. You pretended to snore so he wouldn’t be discovered.”

  “That was different. He was right there, and, well, he looked sad. Now he’s gone.”

  “Bill, help me. I helped you find Charles and Paul when they escaped from their cage.”

  “I keep telling you, Marty is not a gerbil.”

  “I helped you move your whole room around so the bed would be on top of the grape juice stain you made on the carpet.”

  “And I gave you my dessert for a week.”

  I’d forgotten that part. “Well … I didn’t tell your friends when you started getting phone calls from Irene,” I said. “I didn’t even tell Bridget, and she would have told everyone in the school.”

  He blushed. Got him. “Okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

  “Great. Thanks, Bill. It’ll be an adventure.”

  He smiled, finally, and saluted. “Tell me what to do. Captain Billy Stardust is at your service. Or, even better, I could be a tracking dog. A bloodhound. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He made his mouth droop like a hound’s, and dropped to all fours. “Awooo!” he bayed.

  “Bill!”

  “Awooo! Good thing Marty’s so easy to sniff out.” That Bill. I had to laugh.

  “Go up and tell Dad I feel lousy. Say that the two of us are going to take a walk around the block together, to clear my head. Then come back down.” I knew we’d have to go together because Bill would be sure to get lost on his own. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “Awoo,” said Bill, and disappeared.

  I was staring up and down the street, wondering where in the wilderness of a strange town to start my search, when an idea bit me. Marty knew about cars. He might remember what our van looked like, even if he forgot where it was. Across the street from the hotel, under flapping plastic flags, was a used-car lot. To Marty it might look like a hotel parking lot, especially if there was a bright red van, a few years old, parked a few rows in from the road. Was there?

  It would take only a minute to find out. I ran across the street and found not one, but three, vans the same color and style as ours. And under the third of these, sound asleep, was Marty. He squawked like a startled pigeon when I pounded on the red fender.

  “Get up,” I said. I grabbed hold of his dirty shirt. “Get up!”

  “I know you,” he said, “you’re the egg girl.” He tried to roll over.

  I pulled him out from under the van. “Quick!” I said. “Follow me.”

  “Wha-at?” Marty’s pointed eyebrows climbed slowly up his forehead. He seemed dazed. He smelled different than yesterday. Not better, just different. I hauled him upright – he weighed more than Bill, but not much more, and I could still carry Bill around – and dragged him across the street. When we got to the van, I was sweating. He was gasping.


  “This is a V-6, isn’t it,” he said.

  “Here.” I thrust the cheese Danish at him.

  “I recognize the vehicle. Seen a few better years, it has.” He nodded. “You know, this parking lot looks different, somehow, in daylight. Where are the flags?”

  “Across the street,” I said. “Last night you slept across the street.”

  “No,” he said. “I was right here. Under this van.” He yawned.

  “Eat your breakfast,” I said.

  “Thank you. When you feed the body, you feed the soul.”

  Footsteps pounded on the concrete. Coming closer. I tensed. “Awoo! Awoo!” I relaxed. It was only Bill, the hound of the Peelers. “Awoo! Aw –” He stopped when he saw us. “You found Marty,” he said. He didn’t sound very enthusiastic, I noticed. “I brought Dad’s suitcase,” he said, “and ours, and the diaper bag.”

  “Thanks, Bill. Put them in the trunk now.” I unlocked it from the outside. “What about Grandma’s case?” I said. “Could you get it, too?”

  He frowned at me. “What am I? A slave, and you boss me around?”

  “Please, Bill.”

  “Yes, boss lady, I will go and try to find the other case.” He shuffled off, taking little steps, as if his legs were chained together.

  “Better get in,” I said to Marty.

  He finished off the Danish and wiped his hands on his pants. “Why?” he said.

  “So you can go to Schenectady.” Now that I’d found him I wanted to get moving. The memorial service started at two o’clock. Should be plenty of time, but you never know. And the sooner we dropped off Marty, the sooner we would get to Auntie Vera’s. “Schenectady. Where your brother is. Remember?”

  He swayed a bit. He must have been so tired. “Poor Tobias,” he said. “My poor brother.” He started to cry.

  “There, there,” I said. “But, really, Marty, you have to hurry.”

  “I can’t go back. They don’t want me.”

  “They do so,” I said.

  “Tobias and I had a big fight years ago. I left home and never came back. Tobias made millions selling real estate. I had trouble finding work as a musician so I started to drink too much. I drove cabs, and worked in garages. I drifted around. Since last year I’ve been living on the street. I thought about calling my brother, about going home, but somehow I never found the way to Schenectady.”