Voices at Whisper Bend

by Katherine Ayres

  Something hissed. Then something yowled and brushed her leg. She jumped backward. With a crash, two silvery cats sprang from the scrap pile and bounded over the fence into Mrs. Dubner’s backyard.

  A light went on there, and Charlotte heard a voice. “Hush, you silly rascals. Hush now. There, that’s better.”

  Cats! Crazy old Mrs. Dubner’s cats. There should be laws to keep people like her from acting so strange and scaring the neighbors, Charlotte thought.

  She took deep breaths and tried to make her heart stop racing. Cats, just cats. She flashed her light on the alley, to make sure. All she could see were an old cast-iron sink, a rusty bucket, and a mess of tin cans. She re-piled the metal and crept carefully back to her room to watch. Paul Rossi might still show up tonight, she told herself.

  It took half an hour for Charlotte’s heart to return to its regular speed. In another half hour, she was yawning. Sometime after midnight, she gave up and crawled into bed.

  At first light, she tumbled out of the covers and checked the window. Her scrap pile sat in the alley, undisturbed. Darn it, anyway. Why hadn’t that rotten Paul Rossi snapped up her bait? She fell back into bed and tried to make a new plan as she waited for the rest of the family to wake up.

  No brilliant ideas came that morning, not in bed, not at breakfast, not on the way to school with Betsy. When she reached the school yard, more bad news waited.

  “Somebody came back to the cellar last night,” Marnie Cussick announced. “Teachers are in there now, looking around.”

  “Somebody stole our scrap again,” her sister said. “It’s wicked and rotten.”

  No! Charlotte felt like somebody had set her on fire. She shoved her way through the crowd of kids gathered near the cellar door, to where Paul Rossi stood alone, watching the angry faces. “Now I know why you didn’t grab the scrap from my alley. You had other plans last night, didn’t you?”

  “What are you talking about, Charlotte? You calling me a thief?” He stared at her hard, without blinking.

  “What if I am?” She stepped closer to him. “You skip school sometimes. Don’t deny it. And you’re always getting sent to the principal and bringing in those crime stories.”

  “So what? That doesn’t mean I’d mess with the war. I’m no traitor. I got two brothers in the Marines.”

  Betsy came up behind her and took Charlotte’s hand. “You have brothers in the war, too? I didn’t know that.”

  Charlotte stepped back. She hadn’t known it either. She swallowed. “But still … where did you get that bruise on your cheek?”

  “Mind your own business.” He swiped his cheek and glared as the bell rang, ending the argument but not Charlotte’s suspicions.

  Still, to be fair, right after the Pledge of Allegiance she made a complete list of people who might have stolen the metal—Paul Rossi, Mr. Costa, Mr. Willis, even that little kid in Robbie’s class. She refused to put Betsy’s name on the list. But at the bottom she wrote down Zalenchak and Merkow. Were they smart enough to accuse Betsy so nobody would suspect them? Sure. So maybe they should take Paul’s spot at the top of her list. Maybe, and maybe not. Either way, she’d have to set another trap. A better one.

  She slipped the list into her history book so Mrs. Alexander wouldn’t think it was a note and read it out loud. A good detective couldn’t let her suspects know what she was up to, could she?

  CHAPTER 6

  STITCHES

  After lunch, the little kids were going inside as Charlotte’s class was heading out. Robbie popped out of line and stuck a note in her hand.

  Charlotte. Rick Maloney found an old dump. Buried treasure, lots of cans, up at the end of Second Avenue. Let’s go after school. Robbie

  Charlotte had on her oldest skirt, one that was too tight, anyway, so Ma wouldn’t mind if she worked awhile without changing. They’d lose half an hour if they went home first. “Okay Meet you there,” she called as Robbie’s class marched inside.

  After school, she and Betsy walked along Second Avenue. The neighborhood was west of theirs by a few blocks, but it looked about the same. All the houses in the flats along the river were lined up in rows, with small yards and alleys along the back. If you wanted fancy in Braddock, you had to climb the hill.

  At the end of Second Avenue, Charlotte could see a weedy, junk-filled vacant lot with several small boys hard at work. On the sidewalk they’d lined up buckets and wagons and filled them with old rusty cans. Robbie and his friend Rick stood in the middle of the vacant lot wrestling with what looked like a door from an old car.

  “That’s real heavy. Let us help,” she offered.

  She stepped carefully around an old icebox and some broken bottles. Robbie was grabbing the top of the old car door. Rick tugged at the handle.

  “We need to move this old tire out of the way first,” Betsy said. “It’s jamming the door.”

  Charlotte bent to grab the tire. Nasty, greenish water dumped out when she and Betsy lifted it. “Come on, let’s roll this to the sidewalk for the eighth graders’ tire drive. Even if we’re mad at them, the tires will help the war.”

  When they got to the sidewalk, Charlotte let the tire flop down. As she straightened her back, she found herself looking at Paul Rossi. “What are you doing here?” she asked in surprise.

  “What, is there a law against standing on the sidewalk? I live nearby. What about you?”

  She shrugged. “Just collecting scrap. My brother and his friends—”

  “Hey, that’s a big door they’re lifting. Want some help?”

  No, Charlotte wanted to say. Yau’ll only steal this too. But if he really did have brothers in the Marines, would he? Besides, Robbie and Rick were getting nowhere with that door.

  “Okay. The door is pretty heavy.”

  Paul, Charlotte, and Betsy stepped back around the icebox. With five kids lifting, they freed the car door and lugged it to the sidewalk.

  “Let her down easy,” Paul said. “One, two—”

  Something must have slipped. Charlotte held tight to the door bottom, but the top clanked to the ground.

  Robbie reached and tried to stop it, then yelled. “Oww!”

  “What?” Charlotte dropped the door and grabbed for Robbie’s hand. Blood dripped all over the sidewalk. “Gosh, Robbie! Oh, geez. Somebody help us.”

  Before she could even think what to do, Paul Rossi had ripped off his shirt and was wrapping it tightly around Robbie’s hand. “Come on, kid. We’d better get you to the hospital.”

  “Wait! Our doctor’s office is right up on the avenue. It’s closer,” said Charlotte, staring at the shirt. Blood was soaking through. Robbie’s blood. The muscles in Charlotte’s legs went soft and she swayed. Betsy grabbed hold of her and put an arm around her waist.

  “Lead the way.” Paul picked up Robbie. “We’ll make better time if I carry you,” he said. “And you can holler if you want. I sure would.”

  “Five stitches.” Robbie waved a white gauze hand under Charlotte’s nose.

  She ducked back. It looked like a mummy’s hand from a creepy movie.

  “It’s neat,” he bragged. “I’d show you, but they wrapped my hand up so you can’t see.”

  “I … I’ll see it later. Can we go home now?”

  “Did they give you a tetanus shot?” Paul asked. “Last time I got sewed up, they poked me with a needle big enough for a horse.”

  “Right here.” Robbie pointed to his left arm. “I told them to save the shot for a soldier, but they said they had plenty.”

  Beside her, Betsy shivered. “I hate shots.”

  “Me too.” Charlotte studied Robbie’s face. He was grinning, but his skin looked pale. “Can you make it home?”

  “I’m no baby.”

  “I’ll come too,” Paul offered.

  Charlotte shook her head. “Thanks, but …”

  “No trouble. Those shots can make you pretty woozy.”

  A nurse gave Charlotte a sheet of instructions for Ma and explai
ned how to clean and wrap Robbie’s hand. He’d need to come back in a few days so they could take out his stitches.

  They walked home slowly. At every corner, Paul made Robbie stop and sit down on somebody’s steps and rest before starting the next block. Charlotte wanted to hurry home so she could wash the blood off her hands and clothes, but Paul seemed to know what he was doing.

  When they finally got home, Robbie flopped onto the sofa. Charlotte headed into the kitchen to wash up, and Betsy followed her.

  “Robbie’s pretty pale,” Betsy began. “You don’t look so good either, Charlotte. You want me to get my mother?”

  Charlotte checked the kitchen clock as she scrubbed the blood off her hands. Ma would be home soon, and they’d have some explaining to do. She shook her head. “Thanks, Bets, but we’ll be okay.”

  Betsy left by the kitchen door. Charlotte dried her hands and slipped into the living room in time to see Paul stick a pillow under Robbie’s arm. “Keep it high,” he said. “Won’t hurt so much.”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Charlotte asked.

  Paul seemed startled to see her. “Me and my brothers, we’ve been stitched some. No big deal.”

  Suddenly it was a big deal to Charlotte. She’d accused Paul Rossi of stealing, and then he’d turned around and taken care of Robbie. He’d behaved real nice, too, not tough like he acted at school.

  “I’m sorry,” she began. Her cheeks burned, but she refused to let that stop her. “What I said in school. I was wrong. You’re not a bad guy, a thief.”

  Paul shrugged. “Don’t make a fuss, Charlotte. At school now, with everybody accusing people … Well, when I think about my brothers off fighting, it makes all this seem cheap.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “I was. But geez. Your folks will light into both of you tonight. That’s enough for one day.” He slapped Robbie on the shoulder and stuck out his hand to Charlotte. “Pals? I’ll help you haul stuff to school if you want, since he’s on the wounded list.”

  Charlotte shook his hand. “Thanks.” As he left, she stared after him. Who’d have thought she’d ever be pals with Paul Rossi? Or that he could be nice?

  Half an hour later, Ma came home. After she checked Robbie’s hand and made sure he was okay, she glared. “No more collecting metal for you, buster. You either, Charlotte.”

  “But, Ma … It’s for the war.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Ma said. “I’ve got enough on my mind, worrying about Jim.”

  “But, Ma, it’s for Jim. Could I please keep working? I’ll be really careful. I’ll wear gloves.”

  “I’ll think about it. But neither of you picks up as much as a tin can until I decide. Hear me?”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Buster?”

  Robbie didn’t reply. He’d fallen asleep.

  With Robbie’s hand needing to heal, all the chores landed on Charlotte. Ma probably didn’t mean it as a punishment, but it felt like one. Washing clothes on a rainy Friday afternoon, then pinning them up in the cellar to dry—that wasn’t Charlotte’s idea of a weekend. Neither was cleaning and ironing all day Saturday. But she couldn’t complain; Ma worked twice as hard.

  When Sunday dawned, it was the third rainy day in a row. Charlotte made her way to the kitchen, where her parents read the paper over coffee.

  “I’ve got a sweet roll still warm in the oven for you,” Ma said. She stood and gave Charlotte a hug. She pointed to Robbie, who was reading the funny pages. “Had to hide it from that brother of yours. Something about stitches seems to make fellas hungry.”

  “Thanks, Ma. I’ll help you with the cooking after church. It’s a mean day outside.”

  “Bad weather or not, I’ve got lines to check,” Pa interrupted. “That Rowley boy just joined the Army, so I’m down a deckhand.” He turned to Charlotte. “I need you on the Rose this afternoon.”

  Her stomach tightened. “But, Pa, can’t Robbie help?”

  “He’d get his bandages all wet.”

  Robbie looked up from the comics. “I want to go. Please, Pa. I’ll be careful. I can wrap my hand.”

  “You can come if you want, but you can’t work. You’ll just keep us company. Lottie, I really need you today.” Pa folded up his paper and went to dress for church.

  That morning in church, Charlotte prayed as she always did—for the war to end, for Jim and all the soldiers and sailors to come home safe. She added a couple extra prayers at the end.

  “Please, God, forgive me for letting Robbie get hurt. And for thinking and saying bad stuff about Paul Rossi.” She closed her eyes tighter. “And if I have to help on the boat, could it maybe stop raining?”

  Either God wasn’t listening, or he’d decided that a little rain was good penance, for the clouds only got grayer as afternoon came and she, Pa, and Robbie walked to the docks. Since the war had started, Sunday was about the only day the docks were quiet. Still, there were signs of activity inside the nearby mill buildings. Charlotte shivered and wished she could help indoors instead of on the tug in the rain.

  They neared the mooring where the Rose bobbed in rough water, shedding rain like an oversized duck. The Rose wasn’t a big tug like the ones that hauled long strings of barges from the Great Lakes to New Orleans. But she wasn’t small, either. The engines took up most of her wide belly, the pilothouse sat above the front, and tall exhaust stacks poked up behind, making her nearly as high as she was long. With her blunt nose hitched close to the dock, she looked clumsy and bulky, but on the water with a barge or two in tow, she was shipshape enough. If a person cared for ships.

  Pa climbed aboard and held out his hand, first to Robbie, then to Charlotte. She looked down as he swung her onto the deck. High water, rushing and brown with all the rain. The worst time to be on the river.

  “We need to check all the lines and all the cables,” Pa said. He unlocked the door, which led up to the pilothouse and down to the engine room. “Let’s get oilskins on so we don’t get completely soaked.” He opened a storage locker and pulled out three yellow slickers, then went below to the engine room.

  Charlotte shrugged into the oilskin, which felt chill and clammy. She stared out at the choppy river. Raindrops pocked the surface, and gusts of wind whipped up waves. A metallic, oily taste came to her tongue.

  Robbie scowled at her. “What’s the matter, Charlie? You scared? Come on, you can swim, even if it took you forever to learn.” He made it sound like he was the older one and she was a dumb little kid.

  “I’m not scared. I just don’t like high water.” Charlotte frowned, remembering. After the accident, Jim had dragged her to the Carnegie Library’s big indoor pool after school for months. “No sister of mine’s gonna drown,” he’d said. He’d been real patient with her, though. All along, he’d told her it wasn’t her fault she was a sinker, too skinny to float. And finally, she’d learned. But swimming in a pool wasn’t the same as facing high water on the river.

  She looked at Robbie’s sturdy, solid shape. He and Jim took after Pa, born loving water and swimming like fish. She, on the other hand, had gotten Ma’s long, lean bones. Heavy bones.

  Pa returned from the engine room below.

  “Can I use the spyglass, Pa? While you and Charlie check lines?”

  “Don’t see why not. Go on, sit up in my chair and keep watch. We’ll snap on the radio, too. You holler down if you spot trouble.”

  Trouble? Charlotte looked around at the surging river. She followed Pa to the front, where several thick ropes lay in neat coils. On the port side, he lifted one, stretched it out, and rewound it, carefully checking for worn spots. It was important work, Charlotte knew, even if she didn’t like doing it. A frayed rope could mean a lost barge. She knelt on the starboard side and checked her first coil.

  The lines were soaked with rain, and cold. The wet made the twisted hemp swell up even thicker than usual. Her fingers ached by the time she’d re-coiled the first one. Heavy work, but at least she didn’t ha
ve to look at the river. She glanced up to the window of the pilothouse. Robbie had Pa’s spyglass out and was studying the southern river-bank. She moved to a second coil, then a third.

  The front lines and cables were all strong, so she and Pa moved to the stern, where Pa found a mooring line unraveling in the middle. She helped him secure a new line, holding the thick hemp rope as he worked the knots.

  “Hold tighter, Lottie,” he said. “You’re letting her slip.”

  “It’s hard, Pa. My hands are cold.”

  “Put on gloves then. Should be a pair in your pockets. If this knot gives, a whole string of barges could drift off. You know that, girl.”

  Charlotte pulled on the heavy leather gloves. They were damp and too large, but they did make the rope less slick.

  Pa slipped the last loop into place and tested the line. He nodded. “Good and tight. Thanks, Lottie.”

  Great, they were done. Charlotte could go home now and get warm and dry. This hadn’t taken too long, after all. Just then she heard a shout.

  Above her head, Robbie leaned out of the pilothouse window, waving his arms. “Pa, Charlie! Trouble on the river. Barges loose upstream! On the radio they’re calling all the tugs to help!”

  “Not us. We can’t …” Charlotte began, but she knew better. When trouble came on the river, all hands pitched in. There wasn’t much worse trouble than loose barges. If the barges were fully loaded, they could ram and destroy anything in their path. “Oh, Pa,” she cried.

  But Pa didn’t hear. He’d already run for the stairs and the radio, leaving her alone and shivering in the stern.

  CHAPTER 7

  RUNAWAYS ON THE RIVER

  Charlotte made her way up the stairs to the pilothouse. Pa shoved his spyglass into her hands. “Stay top-side and keep watch on the river. If you see any runaway barges, come get me. I have to fire up the boiler.”

  “But, Pa, you don’t have a crew. Just Robbie and me.”

  “You’ll do.” Pa turned to Robbie. “Come on, buster, think you can watch the steam gauge and shovel in a little coal?”