Joanna didn’t realize Theo was on her other side until he jostled her with his elbow. “Sorry,” he whispered.
He was so close she could hear each of his breaths—in and out, in and out. But then she heard something that made her forget about even the nearness of Theo.
Somewhere down the hall a kid was crying. That in itself was pretty bad. But even worse was the fact that no one—not even Billy Hammersley—laughed or even snickered.
In that moment, the truth struck Joanna like a lightning bolt that lit up everything and jolted her from head to toe—the “whole truth,” like they said on Perry Mason, “and nothing but the truth.” Mr. Egan had said they should pray. That alone should have told her how bad things were—a teacher in public school talking about praying! But now she understood why.
If the Russians attacked the United States, it would almost certainly be with nuclear weapons. Nuclear bombs wouldn’t just destroy a few buildings, the way regular bombs did in war movies. They’d destroy whole cities.
She and Sam had watched an episode of The Twentieth Century about how during World War II, the United States gathered a bunch of scientists together to create the first atom bomb so they could end the war. The program even showed the bomb being dropped on a Japanese city. When it exploded, it sent up a giant mushroom-shaped cloud of radiation that spread for miles and miles. It killed thousands and thousands of people and made many of the rest of them sick for a long time afterward.
If the Russians dropped nuclear bombs on cities in the United States, some lucky people who had bomb shelters might be okay. But what about the rest of them?
Joanna shivered. Her stomach cramped. She looked around and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, because if the Russians attacked Chicago, all the ducking and covering in the world wouldn’t help.
Not one tiny bit.
CHAPTER 5
The Watermans
JOANNA TROTTED UP THE CONCRETE STAIRS TO THE MAIN entrance of her building. But when she reached the top, her movements suddenly became stealthy. As quietly as any burglar, she eased the outer door open and closed.
The stairway to the second- and third-floor apartments was on her left. The door to Mrs. Strenge’s apartment was on her right. Joanna tiptoed to the left, but all the while she looked to the right. She held her breath and listened for any sound that might signal the apartment door was about to open. If it did, Joanna was prepared to run.
But Mrs. Strenge’s apartment was silent. So silent that for one little part of a second Joanna was tempted to flip over the newspaper on the old woman’s doormat to see if the headline said anything about Cuba. She quickly thought better of it and fled up the stairs, past the Nowickis’ apartment on the second floor and up to the third.
Joanna expected Pamela to answer her knock, so she was surprised when Mrs. Waterman opened the door.
Joanna thought Mrs. Waterman was beautiful even when she was wearing one of Mr. Waterman’s old shirts over her clothes, and her hair was in a long out-of-the-way braid—which was how she looked when she painted. But she was extra beautiful today. Her red-gold hair was swept up into a fashionable French twist, and she was wearing a pretty green dress.
Mrs. Waterman was an honest-to-goodness artist. Her studio was the sunroom that opened off the living room, and her framed paintings hung on nearly every wall of the apartment. Lately, though, she seemed to be taking a vacation from painting. Her easel had been holding the same half-finished painting of a woman for weeks now. And instead of the apartment smelling faintly of turpentine and paint, as it always used to, today it smelled deliciously of bread baking. Joanna’s stomach growled loudly. She’d been so eager to see Pamela’s surprise, she hadn’t taken the time to eat a snack. She’d just walked Dixie quickly and dashed upstairs.
Mrs. Waterman smiled. “I sent Pamela to the corner to mail a birthday card for me,” she said. “Come have a slice of bread while you wait for her, and I’ll tell you some exciting news.” She led the way down the hallway to the kitchen, her high heels tapping against the linoleum.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Waterman cut into a golden loaf of bread, but her eyes never left Joanna. They were green, like Pamela’s, and just then they were glowing. “Pamela’s uncle Zachary has been transferred from his job in St. Louis,” she announced.
“That’s nice,” Joanna said, though she didn’t see what was so exciting about that.
Mrs. Waterman shook her head as if she heard what Joanna was thinking. “I haven’t told you where he’s been transferred to, Joanna. To Paris! Can you imagine? Paris, France!”
Joanna’s mouth fell open. Paris was where Mrs. Waterman would have gone to study painting if she hadn’t married Mr. Waterman. She had books about Paris in her studio and it looked like an amazing place. “Golly!” Joanna breathed.
Mrs. Waterman laughed and handed her a slice of warm bread. “Golly, indeed! He flies to Paris on Friday, but he’s coming to Chicago today to spend a few days with us first.”
The front door slammed. Pamela hurried in. She must have run both ways. Her cheeks were pink and she was panting like Dixie did after a good workout. She grabbed Joanna’s arm. “C’mon.”
Mrs. Waterman protested, “Don’t you want some fresh bread and milk first?”
Pamela shook her head. “Maybe later.” She turned to start down the hall.
“Did you get your math test back?”
Pamela turned back with a loud sigh. “No. And I did my homework at school. Now can I please go?”
Joanna squirmed. If she spoke to her mother that way, she’d be sent to her room—and she’d be expected to apologize when she came out. But Mrs. Waterman wasn’t as strict as Joanna’s mom. She raised both hands in defeat. “Go.”
Pamela dragged Joanna down the hall to the room she shared with Marie and closed the door. She put a finger to her lips, but behind her finger she was grinning wickedly. She opened the closet door and reached into the pocket of Marie’s fluffy white robe. “Look at this!” she said, pulling out a paperback book. Not Marie’s diary. Something even better.
Joanna sucked in a breath at the sight of the familiar cover. “Oh my gosh!”
She and Pamela had heard eighth-grade girls whispering about this book at recess and knew it was about love and romance and even s-e-x. They’d been desperate to read it, but they’d been too scared to buy it at the drugstore, where old Mrs. Schuman might report back to their mothers. Now, though, thanks to Marie, they had it anyway. Joanna let out an excited squeal and dived onto the floor next to Pamela in the valley between her bed and Marie’s.
They read the first few pages and stopped to frown at each another.
“I don’t see why everybody’s so excited about it,” Pamela complained. “It’s boring so far.”
Joanna nodded her agreement, licking the last crumbs of bread from her fingers. She flipped forward a few pages and read a few lines. Nothing exciting there, either. Then she noticed something.
“Hey, look,” she said. “Some of the pages have bent corners. Let’s see what’s on them!”
Quickly they turned to the first page with a folded corner. A minute later they looked at each other wide-eyed and whispered, “Oh my gosh! Do you believe this?”
They were still huddled there, several folded pages later, when they heard the front door close. “Marie!” Pamela gasped. She slapped the book shut and leaped over her bed to stuff it back into its hiding place. Joanna sprang up from the floor and plopped on top of the bed. Pamela closed the closet door and dropped down beside her just seconds before Marie entered the room.
“Oh, hi, Marie,” Pamela said. Her voice tried hard to sound casual and innocent. “I didn’t know you were home.” She smiled brightly. Too brightly.
Joanna winced. Pamela sure didn’t have any of Marie’s acting ability. Marie had narrowed her eyes and was scanning the room. She probably thought the
y’d been messing with her makeup again. Joanna fought an urge to look at the closet. Had Pamela closed the door all the way?
Then Joanna had a brainstorm. “How’s the new play going?” she asked.
Marie underwent an immediate transformation. She tipped her head graciously at Joanna. She was no longer Marie the Big Sister, she was Marie the Actress. “Pretty well,” she said. “Romeo needs help memorizing his lines, so we’re going to have some extra practices together.” By the satisfied look on Marie’s face, Joanna guessed that spending time with Romeo wouldn’t be exactly painful.
Pamela made a show of looking at the clock on the bedside table. “Uh-oh. I promised Mom I’d set the table,” she said. She got up and slipped past Marie.
“See ya, Marie,” Joanna said, scooting after Pamela. She closed the door behind her before she whispered, “Whew—that was close!”
Pamela hugged herself and twirled around. “Isn’t that book something?”
Mr. Waterman came out of the kitchen before Joanna could answer. He nearly always drove Marie home after her rehearsals because he was a history teacher at her high school. “Hi, sweetie.” He kissed Pamela’s cheek. “Hello, Joanna. What’ve you two been up to?”
Joanna looked at Pamela. They both burst into guilty giggles. Mr. Waterman shook his head. “I should know better than to ask, I suppose.” He settled into his big stuffed chair. “School okay today?” he asked Pamela.
She perched on the arm of the chair. “A little strange, but okay.” She smoothed a pleat on her skirt. “We had an air-raid drill . . .” Her voice trailed off. Mr. Waterman opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but Pamela quickly added, “When’s Uncle Zach going to get here?”
Mr. Waterman glanced at his wristwatch. “Any time now, I should think.” He half closed one eye and frowned in thought. “It’s been four, no, five years since I last saw him. At Grandpa Huey’s funeral. He’s been too busy building his career to take time off even to visit his family.”
Joanna was curious. “What does he do exactly?”
“He’s a newspaper reporter. And I guess all his hard work has paid off, because he just got a job as a foreign correspondent. He’ll be covering stories all over Europe.”
“Wow!” said Joanna. “That sounds exciting.” Maybe she’d be a reporter someday.
Mr. Waterman shook open his paper. Joanna edged toward the door and Pamela followed. “I should probably go home now,” Joanna said.
Pamela sighed, but nodded. Then she whispered, “We’ll read more tomorrow.”
Joanna grinned and started down the stairs. Her head was full of the astonishing things she’d read. The creak of a door opening below only half registered. Luckily, just as she was about to step into the first-floor entryway, she heard a moan that stopped her in her tracks. A misshapen hand grabbed the newspaper from the mat. Then it disappeared inside the first-floor apartment and the door banged shut. A nasty odor filled the hallway. Yuck! It smelled like peppermint mixed with stinky cheese and cabbage—only worse.
Joanna held her breath and flew through the outside door as if she were jet-propelled. A yellow taxi drove up as she dashed down the stairs. Safe on the sidewalk, she paused to watch a man get out—a tall man with blond hair spilling onto his forehead. It had to be Uncle Zach, although he sure didn’t look like any of Joanna’s uncles, who were either plump or bald or both. He looked more like Troy Donahue, the movie star.
Joanna suddenly realized she was staring, so she hurried the rest of the way to the basement. But she couldn’t help thinking again that Pamela had the best luck of anyone she knew, even when it came to uncles.
CHAPTER 6
The Horrible Things Joanna Said
DIXIE’S EXCITED WELCOME MADE JOANNA FEEL GUILTY about leaving her alone so quickly after school, so she tried to make it up to her.
“Play ball!” she cried like an umpire at a ball game, and Dixie raced for her rubber ball. Over and over Joanna tossed the ball and Dixie chased it, running from one end of the apartment to the other. But eventually the little dog had enough. She let the ball roll into a corner and padded over to her water dish to drink thirstily.
Joanna eyed the starburst clock on the living room wall. Four thirty. Too early for supper. And Joanna had only a little bit of homework to do. She could turn on the television. The Three Stooges would be on. Maybe that would erase the nagging memory of how close she’d come to running into Mrs. Strenge—and wondering what would have happened to her if she had.
Would that knobby white hand have grabbed her and dragged her into the first-floor apartment, never to be heard from again? She gulped. Don’t talk to strangers, Sam and Mom always said. And she never did. But what was she supposed to do when the strangest stranger of them all lived in her very own building?
Joanna didn’t turn on the TV. Instead, she plopped onto the stuffed armchair next to the table that held Sam’s framed navy picture. Most of the time she tried not to look at that photo—partly because the stern-faced young man in the stiff-looking uniform didn’t look like her Sam, but mostly because looking at it always brought back the one memory of Sam that Joanna wished she could forget. Lately, though, that memory shoved its way into her mind more and more often, even without the help of the photograph.
Sam had left for basic training a few weeks after graduation. He’d been gone for eight weeks, but he called every Sunday afternoon and wrote letters twice a week. And since he was only forty-five miles away at the Great Lakes naval base, Joanna’s aunt and uncle even drove her and Mom up to visit him one Sunday afternoon. Still, Joanna had missed Sam like crazy. She didn’t know how she would stand it when he went away for a whole year.
Sam got two weeks of leave when his training was finished. Mom took her week of vacation during one of them. She cooked all of Sam’s favorite meals, and lots of relatives came to visit—Grandma and Grandpa, Uncle Joe and Aunt Violet, Aunt Sue and Uncle Phil and their boys, and Great-Aunt Jenny, who was hard of hearing and kept saying “What? Speak up!”
On the days that Mom had to work, Joanna and Sam did all their favorite things. They went fishing at the lagoon in Humboldt Park. They went swimming at Oak Street Beach. They even spent an entire afternoon and most of an evening at Riverview Amusement Park and set a new record for how many times they rode the Bobs roller coaster in a single visit—six!
But no matter how much fun they had, it seemed like there was always a clock tick-tick-ticking inside Joanna’s head, reminding her that very soon Sam would be going far away. It made even the happiest times a little sad.
Eventually the long-dreaded day arrived, and Joanna discovered what she’d suspected all along—that the pain she’d felt at imagining Sam’s departure was nothing compared to how much it hurt now that it was really happening. She knew she had to say her good-bye quickly or risk not being able to say it at all.
“I’ll miss you, Sam,” she choked around the lump that filled her throat, hugging him hard one last time at the front door.
“I’ll miss you, too, Jo. Be sure to write me lots of letters, okay?”
She nodded. “I will.”
Mom came up behind them just as Joanna was turning to go back inside. She was relieved to have gotten through the horrible farewell without bursting into tears. But tears weren’t far away, and she was in a hurry to get to the bathroom, where she could let them flow unseen.
“Joanna, where are you going?” Mom asked. “You’re not going stay in here when you could be with Sam?” It sounded like a question, but from the look on Mom’s face it wasn’t really. “We’ll keep him company while he waits for his taxi,” she added.
Sam was already striding up the stairs to the sidewalk. Each step he took cut off more of his body. First his head, then his shoulders, his back, his legs, and finally his feet. Then he was gone.
Joanna gulped. She said the first excuse she thought of. �
��I forgot to feed Dixie.”
“Dixie will be fine waiting another five minutes.” Mom put her arm around Joanna’s waist. “You’ll wish you’d spent every possible minute with Sam after he’s gone.” She herded Joanna up to the sidewalk.
But Mom had been wrong. Because if Joanna had stayed inside that day, she wouldn’t get a sick feeling in her stomach every time she thought of Sam now. She should’ve faked having to throw up or something. Anything to have stayed in the apartment.
They found Sam standing at the curb, looking up the street for his taxi. He was dressed in his white uniform again after two weeks of being in regular clothes. His tall blue drawstring bag was beside him. He was whistling softly and tapping his foot.
Joanna frowned. He acted as if he couldn’t wait to leave.
He turned toward them and his whistling stopped. Tears stung her eyes, so Joanna focused on the goofy-looking sailor hat on Sam’s close-shaved head. Mom was telling him to be sure to take pictures with his graduation camera and send some in his letters, when suddenly she gave a little squeal.
“Camera!” she said. “I have to get mine!” She dashed back into the apartment for her old Brownie while Joanna stared after her in amazement. Why would she want a reminder of such a horrible day?
One tear escaped the corner of her eye. She quickly wiped it away, but eagle-eyed Sam spotted it, and he made the mistake of trying to comfort her. “It’s not like I’m never coming back,” he said, but his grin made the words seem almost flippant.
“A year!” Joanna huffed. “That’s a long time.”
Sam cupped her chin in his hand and looked right into her eyes. “I know it seems that way now, Jo, but it will go quickly, you’ll see. And just imagine—I’ll be traveling all over the world! I’ll see places I could only dream about before. And I’ll send you something special from every one of them.”
She pulled away from his hand and shot him a reproachful look. “You can’t bribe me like some little kid.”
Cold War on Maplewood Street Page 4
