They get it, only too late.
“Well, I’m going back to bed,” Nancy says, because she likes to sleep in. “There’s nothing to be done now. He’ll show up this afternoon, once school is out, with a perfectly logical explanation.”
But I wasn’t returning home. Because later on that day, I was still making my way by bicycle to the Brooklyn Harbor to hop a ship headed across the Atlantic Ocean.
Coasting down a highway, being blasted by the wind made by passing trucks, I stayed as close to the edge of the graveled road as possible, what with all the broken glass along the way.
One puncture and my mission was over.
A passenger in a Chevy tossed a chewed up piece of bubblegum at my head. Drivers laid on their horns as they swerved around me.
As I neared the city, I stopped to scout out a 1920’s model Studebaker that was abandoned on the side of the highway. Sad to say, everything was already stripped, leaving nothing except a worthless, rusty skeleton. Standing on the roof, I was able to get a view of the city, which is always a thrill for anybody who’s lived their whole life stuck out in the boonies. A Coast Guard seaplane trailed a plume of white smoke above the Empire State Building—on watch for German warships.
No thoughts of nuns right then, only nagging regrets that I hadn’t kissed my ma good-bye. I’d left a note in her top-drawer though, in place of the letter from Daphne I took with me. All would become clear the moment Ma went for a chocolate mint. Besides, if I turned back now there’d be trouble, and if I kept with my plan there’d be…
What?
Forcing the answers from my mind, I keeped on pedaling down Schermerhorn Street headed toward the East River—weaving between Checker cabs stuck in traffic, and sticking my tongue out whenever the cabbies honked their horns.
CHAPTER FOUR
ABOUT THE SAME TIME THE RECESS BELL rang at Saint Brendan’s Catholic School I made it to the Brooklyn Harbor. Sitting on a stack of newspapers, I checked my feet for blisters. Like I feared, bubbles rose off the surface of my heels and off the sides of my toes. Using the sharp point of my sister’s nail file, I popped the blisters, squeezing out blood and water until my feet looked good as new. I shoved them back into the sneakers, thinking I’d earned a rest. I’d picked a good place for it, too, with a view of the East River and downtown Manhattan. The sun was full force on the skyline, rays of light shooting off skyscrapers and off the pure gold roof of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Building. Lady Liberty waved at me and I blew her a kiss. Already there was a fresh wave of huddled masses pouring into New York ’cause of Hitler.
Across the water was where bankers like J.P. Morgan racked in gazillions of dollars. To my right stood the Brooklyn Bridge and I was glad I didn’t have to pedal over it. My calves burnt and my thighs felt like toasted marshmallows. I’d never cycled so far in my life.
For a fleeting half-hour I worried that I’d made a mistake. Something felt wrong but I wasn’t sure what. Then I knew: I was troubled by being in New York City alone, a scary place with all sorts of lunatics running loose. The sooner I got out of there the better.
My Schwinn Camelback bicycle had to be abandoned, but it couldn’t be helped. I loved that bike—its chrome hubcaps and cherry red paint, and the way the spokes buzzed at high speeds. Even though it was a long shot, I left a note in the basket with my address in East Hempstead. Underneath that I put REWARD in big capital letters, without getting into details. My ma would offer a dime to the good citizen who returned it, but by then it would be too late.
My plan was to find a boat leaving for England. I wanted to sail straight for Belgium but that wouldn’t be possible. America was at war with Germany and the enemy now occupied France and Belgium. Rotterdam was out too. Most captains didn’t want to risk being torpedoed by a U-Boat.
Once in England, I’d figure out a way over the English Channel. Why, the distance across was no farther than what I’d just bicycled. In 1926 a mother swum across the Channel—it was that easy. The only weakness with the plan: I was a cruddy swimmer. Once I came close to drowning in a rip tide and Jack had to bring me back to life with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Hopefully the English Channel wasn’t turbulent like the Atlantic Ocean. An ocean undertow can suck you down to where the octopuses live. Better to stick to the low end of a swimming pool, I say.
I pushed thoughts of swimming out of my head. What I needed was an ocean-worthy ship, headed in the right direction. The harbor was a hubbub of men working to move freight on and off boats. One ship was bigger than Saint Brendan’s Church. Easy to hide out on a jumbo ship, I figured. Beginning my observations, I ducked behind a wood crate that must’ve contained a bread truck. Two men stood nearby taking a cigarette break. They looked like bodybuilders, with tattoos covering their arms. I got close enough to make out a Hawaiian hula dancer on the buffer man’s arm. His friend was wearing a red bandana around his neck. My ears picked up bits of their conversation.
“I’d prefer the navy myself,” said Hawaii.
“Na,” said Bandana, “I wanna see some action, not be stuck out on a ship for months at a time twiddling my thumbs while California gets invaded.”
“Aircraft carrier. That’s the life for me, nothing boring about that—fighter planes landing left and right and my job to make sure they don’t crash into each other.”
“Nevah thought a that.” Bandana was beginning to second-guess himself. “But heck—I’m kinda sick of ships after this gig.” He shifted his attention back to the crates in front of them. “Let’s get these boxes loaded and be off to a cold one. I’ll have enough fightin’ to do with the missus when I get home afterwards.”
Inching around the crate to get a better look at the big ship, I observed something a bit worrying. The crate was stenciled with black writing. Whether it was Chinese or Japanese I wouldn’t know. But one thing I did know: what with war raging in the Pacific, I had to be careful not to board a ship headed for Tokyo. Then and there, I eighty-sixed all the cargo ships. And also any boat that looked too small or rickety.
Then my ears rang with the sound of a whistle blowing: a ship getting ready to launch. I followed my ears and ended up looking up at a boat berthed a few docks down. What a beaut: a sailing yacht with polished brass fittings. The wheel was made of wood oiled to a shine. And it was painted my favorite color: blue. My calculations put it at over 100 feet, big enough to cross an ocean. Something this fancy had to belong to J.P. himself or one of his millionaire cronies. Rockefeller probably used it to cruise himself to Florida. This was the sort of ship suited me fine. For one thing, the food would be something. And as a stowaway, I’d get the leftovers. My mouth salivated as my mind pictured a sirloin steak and cheese fondue, with chocolate pudding and marshmallow topping for dessert. The smell of imaginary cheeseburgers hit my nostrils. I almost passed out with joy, or maybe because I’d skipped breakfast and lunch. No potatoes on a vessel like this, I thought.
“Bingo,” I said, noticing the British flag waving from on top of the masthead. “Welcome aboard Tommy!”
But there’d be no welcome aboard for me, not unless I looked like somebody who went golfing and ate caviar on crackers and lobsters that came all the way from Maine by private airplane. I knew the look, too, seeing that I’d once tried out for a job as caddie at the Piping Rock Golf Club. It was my job to retrieve golf balls from a fishpond, but I used my time to closely observe the rich folks, in the hope that their money would rub off on me.
Hurrying back to the Chinese crate, I ducked out of sight and took the Sunday-best-jacket and tie from my duffel bag. A white handkerchief got placed in the breast pocket with exactly the perfect fold. The aviator glasses came next, perched on the tip of my nose, playboy style. My baseball cap topped off the disguise. The sneakers were the only give away.
I removed a box of firecrackers from my duffel bag, planning to create a small diversion. But the matches were nowhere to be found. The whistle blew again, this time a long hoot followed by two short toots. My han
ds were shaking, knowing that all my plans were crumbling like oatmeal cookies. And all for the lack of a match. That’s when I heard Hawaii’s voice, like a foghorn to a lost sailor. I ran over and begged for a book of matches.
“Ain’t you a bit young to smoke,” he said.
“Ah, let ’im have ’em,” said Bandana. I wanted to hug him.
I bolted for the yacht and thanked myself for forgetting to pack dress shoes, because without them sneakers on I’d’a never made it back to the yacht in time. As it was, the blisters slowed me down enough so that I arrived to find dockworkers loosening the ropes that attached the yacht to the pilings. Lighting a whole pack of firecrackers, I threw it up on the deck of the yacht, in front of the helm. This did the trick and had the whole crew running to the explosion with buckets of water.
I spotted a long rope and attached this to my boomerang, throwing it to the top rail with one elegant toss. My tree climbing practice came to good use, as I shimmied up the rope and leaped onto the deck. I did this so fluidly, no one noticed my presence when I slipped below deck and through the first door I found.
The room was used for storage. There were pillars of steamer trunks all embossed with little V’s and L’s. Some were locked but I found one that wasn’t. It stood on end, and when I opened it, out spilled silky dresses of the sort that made my sister Mary drool. I pushed my way into the trunk and managed to close it behind me.
The early start that day, and all that cycling from East Hempstead to Brooklyn, had wore me out. I held my hand over my mouth as I yawned, making sure that no noise escaped. It was stuffy inside a trunk with all them evening gowns but otherwise comfortable. Suffocation might prove a problem and I was glad that once my eyes adjusted, I saw light seeping through a crack where the trunk closed, a good indication of airflow. That’s when it came to me: I’d left the door open. Out I went, fast as an alley cat, and shut the door. Darkness filled the room and I felt my way back to the trunk. Before long, I was dozing off.
I woke and, by the feel of my bladder, knew I’d been napping for some while. I listened but heard nothing outside of the trunk. The boat was rocking and I guessed we were underway. I had to pee badly and didn’t want to spoil the fancy dresses. Besides, my legs was cramping up.
Once out of the trunk, I seen there was nothing to fear. The only stowaway in the storeroom was me. I felt around for my flashlight and had a look around for a place to relieve myself. A bucket stood in the corner and worked better than plumbing. My mind turned to my parched throat and I went hunting for something to drink. I found crates marked gin and vermouth but I wasn’t fool enough to start in with that stuff. I needed to find something less potent, and that’s when I heard the soft jiggling of glass bottles which—jackpot—led me to a case of soda. Things were looking up. I’d packed a jar of peanut butter, another of grape jelly, and a loaf of Wonder Bread. With a couple Cokes and a Milky Way bar, I soon was settled down to a good supper. I knew it was smart to remain in the storeroom until morning. By then we’d be too far out to sea to turn back and I would be on my way to England.
All of a sudden it dawned on me that just because the ship was British, didn’t mean we was headed to England. Maybe the owners wanted to escape the war by bolting for Miami or the Caribbean. I might be stuck on a beach for the duration.
There was only one way to know for sure, and so I took out my pocket compass. I’d used some of the money from the collection plates to buy a professional level one—the kind used by lion hunters on African safaris or mountaineers climbing the Matterhorn. The salesgirl at Woolworths said it was the best money could buy.
I opened the case, unlocked the needle, and watched as it jiggled into action. Facing the direction we seemed to be sailing into, I saw the red needle jolt left and hover over the letter “N.” My eyes moved around the rim of the compass, toward the path we was headed—toward the letter “E.”
“E” for East! “E” for England!
I was glad, because I hadn’t packed my swimming trunks and was in no way willing to wait out the war in Bermuda. I had a brother to rescue.
CHAPTER FIVE
I HAD THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN, which I’d checked out of the Hempstead library before blowing town. The book was banned from Saint Brendan’s. Mother Superior says that Huck’s grammar is an anathema, whatever that is. It’s not all spit-polished like John and Jean’s, that’s one thing. At Saint Brendan’s, Huck’s kind a grammar gets you 40 lashes. Or worse: crucified.
I was reading with the help of my flashlight. As it turned out, Huck and me had a lot in common. His guardians, the Widow Douglas and her nasty sister, were the Protestant version of Sister Bridget and her sidekick, Sister Michael Ursula. I was rooting for Huck to make his break.
It must’ve gotten late and past my usual bedtime, because mid-way through the third chapter I was having trouble keeping my eyes opened—even though I was dying to know what come next. No way I was getting back into the trunk for the night, but I had to take cover until morning. I struck on the idea of constructing a fort using some of the steamer trunks, suitcases, and crates. With plenty of experience making forts, within no time I was holed up in my new hideout. I turned off my flashlight, made a pillow out of my dress jacket, and conked out.
Sometime later on I was jolted awake. We had sailed into troubled waters. I told myself a boat this size should have no trouble making an Atlantic crossing. Our biggest threat wasn’t waves—it was German U-Boats. Still, I confess for a minute or two, as I was tossed against a case of booze, I lost my nerve. I’m not what you’d call a religious man, but I got to my knees, folded my hands, and prayed to Jesus plus St. Christopher—the patron saint of travelers. The storm only got worse. Obviously, I needed the name of the patron saint of sailors, since there was sure to be one. No matter—somebody up there finally passed a message to the right department. The ship righted herself and we avoided drowning.
It’s time to survey the vessel, I thought, hoping to find the crew and passengers asleep in their berths. I would avoid the top deck, where somebody might be manning the helm even at this late hour. Opening the storeroom door a crack, I took a peek down the narrow hallway. I’d make myself invisible by removing my sneakers, which had an annoying way of squeaking on wood floors. Once before, while leaving the house on a clandestine mission, my sneakers gave me away. So in my bare feet, I creeped down the hallway toward the forward end of the boat. The bow, it’s called. All the cabin doors were shut closed and no one was about.
From one of the cabins came a thunder of snoring. Experienced sailors, I figured, because they’d slept through the storm. Two snorers were synced to each other. When one took in air, the other let it out. It made me miss my brother Jack, who bunked with me up until the time he left for Canada. It seemed safe to open the cabin door and have a gander inside.
There was nothing to worry about, because the sailors kept sleeping as I entered a cramped space not much bigger than my ma’s kitchen pantry. One sailor was a giant—taller than seven feet and crammed into his berth like a Catholic at Easter Mass. His knees were bent and he’d have a crick in his neck when he woke up. The man on the upper berth was pint-sized—shorter than me. This one was sprawled out, snoring away with a huge grin on his face.
While checking out the room, I spotted a wristwatch in the giant’s cubbyhole. Unlike a sailor’s cabin, my storeroom was portholeless, making it impossible to tell night from day. A safer bet was a pocket watch clipped to a chain hanging from Peewee’s belt. As I slipped the watch into my back pocket, I made a promise to return it before the voyage ended. There’d be enough shucking and jiving to do next time I got into a confessional booth.
I returned to the passageway in search of the galley and a mid-night snack, because both hands on my new watch pointed to twelve. The kitchen was easy enough to locate, it being the only room with a window facing into the passageway. Upon entering, I found myself face-to-face with a chocolate layer cake, left right there on the counter.
It dawned on me that that cake might fall to the floor during another bout of stormy weather and be ruined. So I took the whole thing back to the safety of the storeroom. That was enough exploring for one night—no need to take no unnecessary chances. And besides, I now had the problem of the cake to attend to.
I woke the next day with a slight stomachache, meaning I’d’ve missed school even if I hadn’t left home. And what a thing it was, to be left unmolested by my sister Mary, who I pictured sitting in Algebra class under the eagle eye of Sister Michael Ursula. I checked the pocket watch. It was already 11:20 in the morning, and the first time I’d skipped two days of school without having to fake a sore throat. That was the problem with having an iron constitution. Every other kid in the school came down with the chickenpox, but not me. Worms, no. Lice, no.
But to keep myself fighting fit, I took time for calisthenics. The exercises had to be done while standing in place—there was room for nothing else. After 100 jumping jacks, I followed with 100 knee squats, repeating the drill until sweat poured from my armpits. I rewarded myself with the remainder of the chocolate layer cake. To my way of thinking, the perfect breakfast. I settled back with Huckleberry Finn and the afternoon passed in a flash.
Fortunately, I was in my fortress when I heard the doorknob turn and two people enter the storeroom. I held my breath by shutting my mouth and pinching my nose. A lady’s voice said, “O’Reilly, I know I left New York with the pearls. I’m quite certain I’d put them in my Louis Vuitton jewel case.”
Jewels, I thought to myself. This was getting more like Treasure Island every minute! There might be some good pirating to do before we reached England. I listened close:
“I can’t have lost them, O’Reilly. The pearls are a family heirloom. Part of a set passed down from my grandmother—believed to have once belonged to Catherine the Great. Of Russia. Pooh! We simply must find them.”
Telegram For Mrs. Mooney Page 3
