Joanna expected Mr. Waterman to tell Marie to hush, but instead he looked at Mrs. Waterman. Did he think Marie was right? Joanna looked at Mrs. Waterman, too. She waited for her to tell Marie to stop being a brat. But Mrs. Waterman didn’t say a word. She just stood abruptly and started stacking dirty dishes.
“Gloria, you haven’t finished your cake,” Mr. Waterman protested.
“I’m too full to eat another bite right now,” she said brightly. “I’ll have it later.” She took the plates to the kitchen. A scowl flashed across Uncle Zach’s face but Joanna didn’t know who he was angry with—Marie for making trouble, Mr. Waterman for not putting a stop to it, or even Mrs. Waterman for just walking away without telling Marie not to be silly, of course she couldn’t have the sunroom.
The last bites of Joanna’s cake stuck in her throat. Marie had ruined the end of a terrific dinner. “Thanks a lot!” Joanna wanted to tell her. Instead, she grabbed her own plate and followed Mrs. Waterman to the kitchen. She got there just in time to see Mrs. Waterman fling her slice of cake into the garbage, and—before she turned quickly away—to see the tears shining on her cheeks.
CHAPTER 10
A Terrible Argument
THEY WERE AT THE ART MUSEUM—JOANNA, PAMELA, AND Mrs. Waterman—looking at the miniature houses. “Look at the teeny-tiny silverware and candlesticks,” Joanna said to Pamela, but Pamela was already drifting ahead.
Reluctantly, Joanna moved away from the case to catch up with Pamela and Mrs. Waterman at the next display, but they weren’t there. Joanna hurried around the corner, but they still were nowhere to be seen, and neither were the miniature houses.
Joanna was suddenly in a small gloomy room. “Pamela? Mrs. Waterman?” she called. But no one answered.
Somewhere behind her, a door quickly opened and closed. Heavy footsteps came toward Joanna. “Who’s there?” Joanna called in a voice that squeaked.
“Are you lost, little girl?” a growly voice asked as a rough hand grabbed her arm.
“No! Let me go!” Joanna cried. “Let me go!”
The door swung open again and footsteps hurried toward them. “I told you never to talk to strangers, Jo!”
“Sam! Help me!”
“I can’t. I’m late for the quarantine.” His footsteps kept going. “Go home.” His voice and footsteps faded.
“Sam! Sam, stop! Come back!”
Joanna woke up, heart pounding wildly, with Sam’s name on her lips. She must have cried out during the dream. Dixie had her front paws up on the edge of the bed. Her head stretched forward and she licked Joanna’s hand.
Joanna patted Dixie’s head. “Good girl, Dix. It’s okay. Go back to sleep. I’m okay.”
But long after Dixie was sleeping again, Joanna lay awake in the dark.
• • •
When she woke up the next morning, Joanna heard Mom washing up in the bathroom and coffee perking in the kitchen. She sighed. Last night’s dream was the weirdest one yet. Sam had been gone and come back, only to leave all over again! And he’d scolded her—something the real Sam hardly ever did.
Joanna pulled the covers up to her chin. The nightmares were getting to her. It was bad enough to be scared during the day because of the Russians and their missiles. Now she was being frightened in her sleep, too!
“Joanna? Time to wake up,” Mom called from the kitchen.
Joanna fought an urge to pull the covers over her head. “I’m awake,” she called back. But she groaned into her pillow before she threw back the covers and sat up. She frowned at her radio. Did she really want to hear the latest news? She hesitated, watching the second hand glide halfway around the face of her clock, before she snapped on the radio.
She was glad she did, too, because for once the news wasn’t awful. Only one Russian ship could possibly reach the quarantine that day. Only one. Possibly. Russia wasn’t going to start a war with just one ship. Joanna was sure she’d float all the way to school that day.
“Dress warm,” Mom advised. “It’s going to be cold. It may even snow today!”
Snow in October! Joanna’s heart gave a happy skip.
“Did you hear? It might snow today!” she greeted Pamela a little while later.
“Isn’t it strange?” Pamela eyed the gray sky.
Joanna sighed. “Everything is strange lately. But at least this is good strange.”
Pamela nodded. She tugged the zipper on her jacket higher. “Brrrrr.”
Joanna shivered as the wind blew up her skirt. “It’s not fair that boys can wear pants but girls have to wear skirts and freeze.”
“That’s for sure,” Pamela agreed.
“And it’s not fair that grown-ups get to make all the decisions all the time and we kids are just supposed to do as we’re told,” Joanna huffed.
“I know!” Pamela nodded vigorously. “They treat us like babies.”
Joanna suddenly giggled. “They’d have fits if they knew what we’ve been reading.”
Pamela laughed. “I’ll say.” She gave Joanna a meaningful look. “We’re sure not babies anymore.”
Joanna grinned. It was true. Together, they’d learned some amazing things in the past few days. The Book had taken them way beyond the romantic kisses of movies. It described things that married people—and sometimes not married people—did in private. Thinking about it made Joanna’s breaths come faster. Then she thought of Theo. Did he know these things, too? Her cheeks burned in spite of the frosty breeze. What would it be like to kiss him? She tried to imagine it.
“I never thought I’d be grateful to Marie for anything,” Pamela said, “but I’m sure glad she brought home that book.”
Joanna blinked away the vision of Theo’s face coming toward hers. “Me too,” she squeaked. Suddenly she felt light, almost happy. “Today is going to be a good day,” she said. “It may snow, only one ship can possibly reach the quarantine, and we have gym.”
“Ooooh—I almost forgot!” Pamela cried. “Do you think we’ll play dodgeball again?” Gym was the one class the girls had together.
“I hope so!” Joanna skipped a few steps. “Hey, look,” she said a minute later, gesturing at the houses ahead. Overnight, many of them had sprouted flags. Mr. Hillyer’s store had one, too. One of the articles in yesterday’s Tribune had been titled “Flying of US Flags Urged During Crisis.” A lot of people seemed to have taken the message to heart. Joanna was glad. It gave her a good feeling to see those flags waving and to hear them snapping in the wind. They made her feel proud—and safer, too, somehow.
As they crossed the street, Pamela said, “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you. My aunt Carol is coming for supper with the twins tonight so they can see Uncle Zach before he leaves tomorrow.”
“So no friends over after school today, huh?” Joanna guessed.
“No, you can come,” Pamela said. “You just might have to leave earlier than usual.”
“I’ll come as soon as I walk Dixie and I’ll leave as soon as they arrive,” Joanna promised. “Just so we have time to read more of The Book. That’s all that matters.”
• • •
When Pamela opened the Watermans’ door that afternoon, Joanna knew right away that something was different, but it took her a moment to identify what it was. When she did, she smiled. The scent of turpentine was in the air.
A quick glance revealed Mrs. Waterman in her studio, painting and Uncle Zach watching from a bench a few feet away.
Pamela rolled her eyes at Joanna. “Mom’s painting again, so Marie is pouting in the bedroom.”
“Didn’t she have play practice today?” asked Joanna.
“No. She just had costume fittings. You should’ve seen her face when she saw Mom painting!” Pamela laughed. “She stomped all the way into our room and slammed the door.” Her grin turned down on one corner. “But that means no chance to read The Bo
ok today after all.”
Joanna shrugged off her disappointment. “Is it okay if we watch your mom paint for a minute? I want to see if the lady in the painting is looking into or out of the window.” Mrs. Waterman never minded if they watched her paint and it always fascinated Joanna to watch each stroke of the brush leave behind one more tiny part of whatever picture was taking shape on the canvas.
“You go ahead,” Pamela said. “I’ll pour us some milk and see if there’s any leftover cake for a snack.” She went off to the kitchen.
Mrs. Waterman and Uncle Zach were talking as Joanna approached the sunroom. She heard Uncle Zach say, “. . . not too late.” Mrs. Waterman’s green-tipped brush paused in midair as she stared at him. Then she must have heard Joanna coming, because she suddenly spun around. “Oh—Joanna! Hello.”
Joanna stopped. She felt as if she’d interrupted something, but it couldn’t have been anything very important, because Uncle Zach was grinning at her and so was Mrs. Waterman, though her cheeks were unusually pink. “Is it all right if I look at your painting?”
“Of course it is,” Mrs. Waterman said. “Come and take a look. It’s still not finished. But almost.”
Joanna walked around the easel. Gosh! Mrs. Waterman must have been painting all day. Now it was clear that the woman in the painting was looking out a window at a street scene—but not just any street scene. “It’s Paris!” Joanna cried, recognizing the Eiffel Tower in the background.
“Yes,” Mrs. Waterman said, her voice suddenly soft. “It is.” She turned to beam at Uncle Zach and he beamed back.
Joanna looked at the picture again, admiring the brilliant blues and vivid reds in the sky and flowers. She would love to be an artist someday. “It’s beautiful,” she said.
Mrs. Waterman’s gaze snapped back from Uncle Zach as if for a moment she’d forgotten Joanna was there. “I-I’m glad you like it,” she said, her cheeks more pink than ever. She tugged off the paint-spattered shirt she was wearing over her sweater and skirt and glanced at her watch. In a fluttery voice she said, “I’d—um—better start dinner or it will be midnight before we eat.” Then she gave a sharp little laugh and rushed out of the room. Joanna, after an uncertain grin at Uncle Zach, followed her to the kitchen.
While Mrs. Waterman started the oven and peeled potatoes to cook with the chicken already in the roasting pan, Joanna and Pamela split the last slice of chocolate cake and gulped down glasses of milk. They were just finishing when Mr. Waterman arrived home. Mrs. Waterman hurried to greet him.
Joanna expected him to say something about the fact that she was painting again. Surely he smelled the turpentine, too, and he’d want to see the work she’d done. But he didn’t say anything except “Hello, dear.” Mrs. Waterman returned to the kitchen more slowly than she’d left and slid the pan of chicken and potatoes into the oven. Then she took off her apron and walked back to the living room. Their snack finished, Joanna and Pamela followed her.
“Let’s watch American Bandstand,” Pamela suggested.
They were barely to the dining room, though, when raised voices from the living room made them stop. A few feet ahead of them Mrs. Waterman halted, too.
“It’s Kennedy’s fault we’re in this mess,” Uncle Zach said as he sat down on the couch. “The Russians never would’ve been so bold if the Bay of Pigs invasion hadn’t been bungled so badly.”
Mr. Waterman was in his chair, an unopened newspaper in his hands. “That wasn’t all Kennedy’s fault. He—”
But Uncle Zach cut him off. “He’s the president. Everything is ultimately his fault. He even allowed the Berlin Wall to go up. Why shouldn’t they believe he’d look the other way when they put missile launchers on our back doorstep? They see him as weak because that’s the image he’s earned.”
“Well, they’re wrong!” Mr. Waterman snapped. “And he’s proving that now. He’s not backing down this time, and they’d better understand that, because if they don’t, we’re going to end up blowing the whole world and everyone in it straight to—”
“George!” The horror in Mrs. Waterman’s voice made Joanna cringe.
Mr. Waterman whirled around. He looked startled to see her standing just a few feet behind his chair. He stood up quickly. “I’m sorry, Gloria, I didn’t realize you were there.”
“But you believe it can happen, don’t you?” she demanded in a shrill voice. “All this week you’ve been telling me not to worry, that it will never come to a war, but you’ve just been telling me what you knew I wanted to hear. And all the while you’ve really been thinking there might be a war—one that could be the beginning of the end of the world!”
“Gloria, for God’s sake, hush! You’re frightening the kids.”
“I’m frightening them?”
Joanna had never heard Mrs. Waterman sound so angry.
Mr. Waterman went around his chair to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I got in a political discussion with Zach and I forgot myself for a minute. I got carried away and said things I don’t really believe. This whole mess is going to work out just fine, hon. Trust me.”
“And how am I supposed to do that now, George? Just because you say so? Am I supposed to blindly believe whatever I’m told? Do you really see me as such a child?” Mrs. Waterman’s voice had gotten quieter. More controlled. But no less angry.
“No, of course not!” Mr. Waterman sounded honestly sorry, but a little exasperated, too. He put one hand on her shoulder. His voice softened. “But you can make an effort to think positively, can’t you? Concentrate on practical everyday things—meals and housework and the girls—and this will pass.”
Mrs. Waterman’s back stiffened. “Practical everyday things?” she repeated. She shook off Mr. Waterman’s hand. “Can’t you see I’m already drowning in practical things? If the bomb doesn’t kill me, practicality will!”
Mrs. Waterman whirled around and rushed past Pamela and Joanna. The Watermans’ bedroom door slammed. Joanna was left staring at Mr. Waterman. She took a sideways step out of his way, because she expected him to follow Mrs. Waterman. She was surprised when instead he just pressed his lips together and frowned at the bedroom door. Then he drew himself up straighter, spun stiffly on his heel, and returned to his chair. Uncle Zach looked on with one eyebrow raised in a thoughtful expression.
The air felt thick with anger, and Mrs. Waterman’s words seemed to hang in it instead of fading away.
“I should go home,” Joanna said softly, snatching her jacket from the back of a dining room chair and thrusting her arms through the sleeves.
Pamela didn’t argue. She nodded and opened the front door. “See you tomorrow,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 11
Joanna Takes Action
AS JOANNA PLODDED DOWN THE OUTSIDE STAIRS, SHE suddenly got an idea. Instead of going down to the basement, she trotted to the large shed behind their building. Swiftly, she dialed the combination to the padlock on the door, and she entered the musty space where each apartment had its own small storage area. People stored Christmas decorations, cardboard boxes, window fans, outgrown toys—and bicycles.
Joanna steered her bike outside. It was probably the last chance she’d have to ride until next spring. Maybe a good, fast bike ride would help blow away the discomfort she felt after seeing Mr. and Mrs. Waterman argue.
“Let’s go, Thunder,” she whispered.
When she was younger, she had pretended that her bike was a beautiful black horse, like Black Beauty, or Fury from the TV show. And he was wild—so wild, no one else could ride him. Only Joanna, because he loved her. Pamela’s bike-horse had been a palomino she named Lightning. Together, the two girls had ridden Thunder and Lightning through imaginary canyons and valleys and fields on one adventure after another. Which was a bit of a miracle considering that at one point it seemed like Joanna would never learn how to ride a bike at all.
Sam
had taught her so many things—how to swim and roller-skate and whistle, how to hit a baseball, bait a fishhook, make a triple-decker sandwich, and build the best snowman for blocks around. It never occurred to either of them that he wouldn’t be able to teach her how to ride a bike. Joanna sped down Maplewood, laughing under her breath at the memory.
She was seven the day Sam watched her riding her bike and asked if she was ready to take off the training wheels. Joanna was all for it. Everyone knew training wheels were for babies. She wanted to burn rubber—go so fast that when she hit the brake the tires would squeal and leave a squiggly line of black on the sidewalk.
“Hurry up. Take ’em off,” she told Sam, perching on the front steps to watch.
He got the wrench and went to work. Soon the training wheels were lying on the sidewalk and for the first time her bike actually needed its kickstand in order to stay upright. Feeling very grown up, Joanna shoved the kickstand up with her foot. Then she climbed on her bike, all set to take off. But as soon as she settled herself on the seat, the bike started to tip. She caught herself with one foot and scowled. If she couldn’t sit on the bike without falling over, how was she supposed to ride?
Sam gave her ponytail a tug. “Don’t worry. You just need a little help getting started.” He walked behind her and gripped the back of the bike. “I’ll give you a push to get you going,” he said. “Once you’re rolling you’ll be fine. You ready?”
She nodded. “Ready.”
“Go!”
She went. But she was barely past the front of their building when the bike started to wobble. Frightened, Joanna jerked on the handlebar. The bike swerved left. It rolled off the sidewalk and bumped over the grass toward a station wagon parked at the curb. In her panic she forgot about the brakes. She shrieked and jerked the handlebar sharply to the right. The bike stopped, teetered in place for a few heartbeats, then toppled over.
“At least the grass made a soft landing,” Sam said when he stood Joanna up and brushed her off.
Cold War on Maplewood Street Page 7
