“Hold the door,” she hisses as she steps onto the porch. She comes in and I watch her boots climb the stairs and turn into my room. I ease the front door closed and follow her up the stairs.
“Shut the door!” she huffs as I enter my bedroom. The box sits on my bed. “Lock the door.”
“I’m not allowed to lock the bedroom door,” I say. The last time Carol Anne locked the bedroom door, Dad had to climb a ladder and break the window to open it again, but not before she’d used Mom’s Love That Red lipstick to draw on the mirror, the wall, the door, and herself. The time she locked herself in the bathroom, she licked the top of the toilet cleanser can before Dad could break in. So we don’t lock doors in this house. That’s the rule.
“Move it!” I do as Mom asks as she looks around the room, sizing it up. “Now, I need a place to put this.”
I flip the lock on the door, shaking my head. “We are going to be in so much trouble.” I’m not sure why I think we’re headed for trouble, but I can just feel it.
Mom throws her coat over a pile of Carol Anne’s stuffed animals, leaving one hand on the box at all times. It’s like there are alligators inside the box and she doesn’t want them to escape.
“That’s the deep, dark secret?” I walk toward it sniffing the air.
“Look, Marjorie. If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone?”
“Sure,” I say. I really want to look in that box. It could be Ancient Greek art that Mrs. Papadopoulos smuggled into the country. It could be pictures of naked Ancient Greek women draped in see-through dresses like the ladies in Kirk’s books. It could be buried treasure. It could, in fact, be an alligator. I have no idea what’s in the box, and it’s making my fingers twitch wanting to look.
“I’m serious, sweetie.” Her voice softens. “You can’t tell anyone. Not Bernadette. Not your dad. Not Carol Anne. No one.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, stretching to look under the flaps of the box. I’d probably promise her the moon in a bowl if she let me look in the mystery box.
“You think there might be room under your bed for this?” She sinks down on her knees and looks under the bed. I see my opportunity and flip back the top for a look.
“It’s just books,” I say, disappointed. Books? That’s the big deal? “Mrs. Papadopoulos wants us to store some old books for her?”
Before Mom can even answer, we hear Carol Anne trying the door. “Mommy?”
“Just a minute,” Mom answers, but not before Carol Anne starts to pound. “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” She cries, louder, louder, louder.
Mom pulls out my National Geographic box from under the bed and motions me to help her lift down the book box. “Hold your horses, sweetheart,” she yells at Carol Anne.
“Hurry,” she whispers to me.
We struggle the box onto the floor and slide it under my bed, way up against the wall. The door vibrates as Carol Anne starts kicking. “MOMMY! MOMMY!” We hear heavy steps on the stairs followed by Dad’s voice, “Lila, you in there?” He tries the door.
“I’m here with Marjorie, Jack. Give us a minute.”
“The door’s locked. Why’s the door locked? There are no locked doors in this house.”
“I told you,” I mouth to Mom.
Mom stands up on her knees. “We’re having a little girl talk, can you give us a minute?”
“What’d you say?” he yells. Carol Anne’s screaming is like a river that doesn’t stop.
“G i r l t a l k.” Mom stretches out the words real long, as if Dad doesn’t speak English.
“Oh. Okay, then. Girl talk. Carol Anne, you come with me.” I hear his feet clomping down the stairs, Carol Anne’s screams disappearing into the distance. Mom and I sit on the floor in the kind of silence that’s left after a train’s gone through.
“This is almost too much.” Mom grabs her forehead with her fingertips, thinking hard. “Let’s slide your map box back under the bed.”
We do.
“It’s okay, Mom. Nobody ever goes under there, not even Mrs. Kovacs.” Mom looks like she needs convincing. “Really. I won’t tell anyone, but just so you know, this makes zero sense. Hiding a box of Mrs. Papadopoulos’s old books? Why?”
Mom leans against the bed. “They aren’t her books, exactly. They’re kind of library books. Or books that used to be in the library, anyway. And now they’re …” she hesitates, thinking, “on a little vacation. Under your bed with all your travel brochures. Kind of fitting, no?”
I pull the bed skirt down and smooth my covers. “All hidden. Can’t see a thing.”
“You can’t tell anyone about this, Marjorie.”
“Yeah, I know. If I tell, we’ll have to live in a cardboard box under some bridge.”
She puts her hand on my arm. “If you say one word, there’s no telling what would happen. The police could come. It would be bad. Really bad. Do you understand? Mommy could go to jail.”
“Jail?” I seize up inside.
“Don’t look so alarmed, my sweetheart. Mommy’s really doing a good thing, it’s just your dad might not see it that way.”
“Or the police?”
“Well, yes. Or the police.” She stands and picks up her coat from where she flung it on the stuffed animals. A teddy bear stares straight at me and I feel the crazy urge to turn him toward the wall so he can’t see what we’re doing.
“We need to end this girl talk and go join the family before Carol Anne explodes,” Mom starts toward the door.
“That’s my girl talk?” I ask.
Actually, I’ve already had the girl talk. Bernadette has two older sisters and they’ve told me everything I need to know. Being twelve does not mean I’m stupid.
I have also read just about every Nancy Drew book there is. I know what hiding a box of illegal books under my bed makes me. It makes me an accomplice.
Mom smiles. “We’ll have that girl talk. Not today, though, okay?”
After we unlock the door and go downstairs, the rest of the evening settles in like a typical Saturday night. We eat and watch Beat the Clock and The Jackie Gleason Show just like the rest of the world. Then Carol Anne and I turn in so Dad can watch The Saturday Night Fights.
I slip under my covers thinking about Inga’s hollow house and the box of books under my bed. I wonder if her dad watches the fights. I wonder how her brother died. I wonder if heaven’s a real place and if Tommy Fisher might meet Inga’s brother up there, or if there are boundary lines around countries in heaven like there are here on earth. Does everyone speak the same language in heaven? What if that language isn’t English?
Thoughts swirl until my mind’s so clouded I have no choice but to fall asleep. But not for long.
CHAPTER 17
Bing bong.
The doorbell?
Bing bong. Bing bong. I check the clock. 12:30 a.m.
Lights on in the hallway. Dad’s feet on the stairs. The front door opens. I see Mom’s bathrobe flip by my open bedroom door as she runs down the stairs.
My heart turns into a fireball. I sit up straight in bed and don’t blink.
The cops have figured out where the books are already?
Someone must have seen us unloading the box from the car! I imagine Mom being taken away in handcuffs in her pink bathrobe and wonder if they will let her at least put on her boots. My ears are ringing and I pant heavily through my nose, my mouth clamped shut. This is it. The end of the world isn’t coming in the form of an H-bomb; it’s coming as a knock on the door in the middle of the night. I think about throwing the books out the window, but I’m too scared to move.
“George,” Dad says as the door squeaks open. “Come on in.”
Mr. Papadopoulos? Not the police? I don’t breathe, waiting to hear more.
Why would Mr. P. be here? At first I’m relieved because no one’s less scary than Mr. Papadopoulos, who sings when he brings you a pizza and never runs out of laughter. I take a relieved breath, but then it hits me. I sit straight up in bed.
&nb
sp; “No!” My voice escapes into the dark room. I look over to see if Carol Anne is awake, but she’s sprawled out on her belly fast asleep. She kicks at the covers and rolls over.
“We’re doomed,” I moan. There could only be one reason for Mr. P. to come to the door at this hour. He must have found out about Mom and Mrs. P. and the books and now they’re both in hot water.
But hot water is a lot less scary than jail. I’m still scared, but not too scared to move. I pop out of bed and tiptoe to my doorway.
Mr. Papadopoulos stamps the snow off of his feet. Voices mumble from downstairs.
Maybe he’s just here to warn us that the cops are on their way. Maybe there’s still time.
Quick! I think. I have to hide the evidence. My eyes pierce the shadows of my room, looking for options. Where could I hide a box of books? Can I lift it by myself? I run to the window and give it a tug. Frozen solid. If I could break the window, I could throw the books down one at a time. But that makes no sense; the house is probably surrounded. I need to cover for Mom so she can slide out the back door under the cloak of darkness. I dive halfway under my bed and pull out my map box. Before I can imagine the next scene in the movie screen of my brain, I hear Mr. P.’s booming voice announce, “I’m going to be a papa!”
A papa? I sit up on my knees, listening hard.
“We got the call. The girl has reached her time. We have to be in Charleston, West Virginia, by morning.”
“Let me put on some coffee,” Mom says.
“No, no. No time. My friend, I need three hundred dollars to pay the hospital bill before they will give us the baby. The banks are closed.”
Dad whistles. “Good God, George. I don’t keep that kind of money in the house.”
“Yes. Yes. I know. Whatever you have. I write it down here and pay you back after the banks open Monday. First thing. Anderson give me fifty, Fred DiMario, forty-three. I’m going up and down the street. I’m coming close, only need sixty-three more.”
“Let me see what’s in my tea can,” Mom says, and I hear her running into the kitchen.
“I’ve maybe seven or eight bucks in my pants upstairs.” Dad bolts up the stairs. I hear change falling on the hardwood floor and then he’s in my doorway.
“Daddy?” I whisper. “What’s Mr. P. doing here in the middle of the night?”
“He needs to borrow some money, baby. You still have that five bucks that Grandma Mona gave you in your Christmas package?”
“Sure.” I reach into my bedside drawer and pull out my Annie Oakley wallet with its one, lone five-dollar bill. He doesn’t wait for me to pull out the bill. He just snatches it up and dashes out my door and back down the stairs.
“That makes twenty-seven bucks, George. I wish it was more.”
As Mr. P. walks back out onto the porch, Dad asks, “Is it a boy or girl?”
“Is a baby! Opa!” Mr. P.’s voice booms in the night.
“Opa!” my dad calls back as he closes the door.
Crouched at the top of the stairs, I can feel the rush of cold air on my bare feet when Dad closes the door. The lock clicks and Mom starts up the stairs.
“Let’s go to bed, sweetie. It’s late.”
“Is Mr. Papadopoulos in trouble?” I ask.
“Not at all!” says Mom, smiling. “They’re having a baby tonight.”
“I didn’t think Mrs. P. could have babies,” I say.
“This baby’s coming special delivery. Now, back to bed.”
I may not know everything, but I know that babies do not come in a box, special delivery. “What?” I ask.
“They bought a baby from West Virginia,” says Dad. “Tell her plain and simple, Lila, and then that’s it. I don’t want to be up answering questions for the rest of the night.” Dad disappears into their room.
To know my dad is to know that that’s it means no more questions. But telling me plain and simple isn’t enough, so I whisper my leftover questions at Mom as she follows me into my room.
“How much does a baby cost?” I ask as Mom tucks the covers around me. “Why did they have to go to West Virginia? Do they have baby stores there? With real babies?”
“They hire a lawyer to do the buying, honey. I don’t exactly know how it works, but I know it’s done. And the baby will have a loving and welcoming home, that’s the most important thing.”
“But how much?” I want to ask if some babies cost more than others or if they give discounts if you buy more than one, like two-for-one sales on cereal, but I don’t push my luck.
“Oh, I think Lydia said it costs about five hundred dollars, if you count in the hospital bills, now go back to sleep.”
After Mom leaves my room, I pull myself up to look out the window. The Winslows’ porch light is on. I can see the outline of Mr. Papadopoulos in the open doorway.
I fall back on my pillow and think about a baby being born somewhere in West Virginia. I even consider pulling out my map box from under the bed and using a ruler to measure how far away it is and how long they will have to drive. But with Dad home, it’s too risky for me to be poking around under my bed since my map box isn’t the only thing under there.
I stare into the darkness, looking for answers. Carol Anne kicks her legs again in the next bed. Even though I can’t see her, I know she’s pulling her stuffed dog close. She missed everything, which is typical. I wonder if Mom and Dad would have paid five hundred dollars for me or for her. They pretty much got us for free. Five hundred dollars is a lot of money. But when you think about it, it’s less than most cars cost, and babies last longer.
CHAPTER 18
I’ve never had a secret from Bernadette before. I’ve known her since we had our picture taken in our underpants, standing beside her wading pool with goofy grins on our faces and our bellies hanging out. We weren’t even two years old. Someday when Mom’s not looking, I’m going to take that picture down from its place on the side of the refrigerator and set it on fire.
This is Bernadette’s first time outdoors in over a week. She’s wearing earmuffs, a scarf over her head, and a hood over the entire business. Her head looks so big it’s like she has a globe sitting on her shoulders.
I wonder as I watch her approach if she’ll be able to see the secret on my face. I can’t even tell her that there’s something I can’t tell her, because I know she could weasel it out of me. Luckily, she has other news and starts talking as soon as she sees me.
“It’s the best,” Bernadette says, describing her new 45-RPM record player. “It has one of those thick stems, so you don’t have to put plugs in the records, and you can stack up eleven records in the changer.”
“You have eleven records?” I can’t believe it. A week ago she didn’t even have a record player.
“Nah. Mom only gave me four records, the McGuire Sisters, Rosemary Clooney, Pat Boone, and Perry Como. “This Old House” isn’t bad, but the rest of the records are dullsville. I still have my Christmas money, and my sister said she’d walk me to the record store one night after school. They have little booths so that you can listen to the record before you buy it.”
“Your birthday’s not until June.” I point out the obvious.
“I know. But Daddy felt sorry for me because of my earache, so he went to Harper’s Appliances and bought me a record player. Can you believe it?”
The last time I was sick I got homemade popsicles that Mom made by filling the ice cube trays with Kool-Aid and sticking the cubes with toothpicks. And I had the mumps and was out for two weeks. So the answer was no, I couldn’t believe her dad gave her a record player for having an earache.
Still, it’s hard not to be excited about a new record player. And one that’s Bernadette’s very own. What would it be like to have a record player and no one hovering over you, telling you to not scratch the records?
“You could ask for some rock and roll records for your birthday.”
“Oh, I don’t want to wait that long. And it’s not rock and roll, Marjorie. It’
s rock ’n roll now. You say it like it’s all one word. I want to get Bill Haley and the Comets. Mom said maybe, but she won’t let any of that Negro rock ’n roll in the house. She says it’s too wild.” Bernadette rolls her eyes. I shake my head.
Mothers. Only some mothers can be worse than others.
I don’t understand what Mrs. Ferguson has against Negroes. I don’t know any Negroes, personally. I’ve watched Amos and Andy and the Kingfish and the singer Harry Belafonte on television and they seem nice enough. But there are no Negroes at my school, at church, or in the grocery store by my house. Only when Mom, Carol Anne, and I put on our white gloves and take the bus downtown to shop at Hudson’s do I see colored families, and they don’t seem wild at all.
There’s a line in Detroit and it’s called Eight Mile Road. All the colored families live south of that line. You don’t have to be Negro to live south of Eight Mile—lots of white folks live in Greektown and the Polish area called Hamtramck—but you have to be white to live north of it. About the only thing I know about Negroes is that I really like Negro music. Bernadette does, too, even if her mom won’t let her bring it in the house.
The list of what and who Mrs. Ferguson lets in her house is long and complicated. Like she won’t let Phyllis Brandt in the house, because Phyllis’s mom is divorced and wears red Capri pants. And she won’t let hamburger in the house, because who knows what all the grocery grinds up in there. Definitely no Italians or people who come up North from the South to work at the auto plants—doesn’t matter whether they’re white or colored. She calls them factory rats and they are definitely not allowed anywhere near her house. And no Lutherans, of course.
“My sister’s friend Claudia? She has Fats Domino, Ray Charles, and everything. Maybe she’ll let me borrow the records for a sleepover sometime,” Bernadette whispers, like she’s telling me a dangerous secret.
“That would be neato,” I answer, trying out a new word I heard on the radio.
“If you bought some records with your Christmas money, I’d let you play them on my record player.”
The Enemy Page 9
