Mr. Cluck never got back to the lesson on fractions. Except for five minutes when he gave us homework, he spent the rest of the afternoon talking about how hard it was to teach us. I don’t think anybody listened, even though the horsing around had stopped. A few kids kept unfolding their letters to reread them. But most kids seemed gloomy whether or not they’d gotten any mail. One boy put his head down on the desk, and another one stared at the floor and cried.
At supper Moe and his henchmen sat with us again. After Moe kissed his rabbit’s foot, he started on my food. He got less than at lunch, though. I loaded my fork, dumped the food into my mouth, swallowed without chewing, and dug back in. I got more that way, and I didn’t have to taste what I was eating.
When I finished, I looked around. Everyone ate the same way I had. HHB table manners. Shovel manners.
A minute or two after my last swallow, I had to go to the toilet. The delicious food had made me sick. I hoped there was a toilet down here. Mike pointed, and I ran.
It was far away, halfway across the basement. They should have built it closer if they were going to serve food like this.
When I unbuttoned my knickers, Gideon’s letter fell on the floor. I left it there while I used the toilet. Afterwards, I sat down on the toilet seat and opened the letter.
Dear Dave,
We reached Chicago on Friday, and on Saturday a letter came from Aunt Sarah. She wrote that Ida had said she was going to take you to the Hebrew Home for Boys. That’s how I know where you are. Aunt Sarah says it’s a decent place, where you’ll get a good education.
That was a laugh.
Papa would want you to study hard for your future. I hope you won’t let your mischief get in the way.
Try and stop me.
Uncle Jack and I are boarders in a house owned by a lady named Mrs. Roth. It’s clean, and the food is all right. Tomorrow, I start school. I hope it’s as good as yours and that some of my schoolmates are interested in more than stickball.
That’s all Gideon thought I was interested in. And that’s why he was glad to leave me behind.
I guess you wanted me to tell Uncle Jack that I wouldn’t go to Chicago without you, but what good would it do for both of us to be in an orphanage? I’m not the kind of brother who could beat up bullies for you, so you’re just as well off without me.
Better off. I was better off without him.
Uncle Jack’s headaches are very bad. I keep telling him that you would be as quiet as I am. I hope he’ll change his mind soon and send for you. If he does, you can’t bounce balls or snap your fingers or yell or do anything noisy.
I knew that. I could be quiet.
Please write and tell me what the orphanage is like and what you’re studying. I’ll write again soon. No matter what you think, I still care about you.
Yours truly,
Gideon
I tore the letter into tiny pieces and flushed it away.
Chapter 7
ON MY WAY back from the toilet, I looked around. The basement was mostly open space interrupted by pillars. There were a few rooms, though. The first one I passed was full of broken furniture—desks, chairs, tables. Beyond that was a big closet. Its door was open, and I saw shelves of supplies and tools. Then, in the open space again, clotheslines were strung between the pillars, and I saw enormous sinks and wringers.
Somebody was singing. I passed a door to a small room. Inside, a man was changing his shirt and singing a sad song. I heard the words, “Please, Mr. Policeman, help me find . . .”
It looked like the man lived down here. There was a cot and a dresser. The janitor, I guessed.
Beyond the janitor’s room was the furnace and the coal chute, and then I was back in the dining hall. Everybody was leaving. I got my notebook and arithmetic textbook from our bench and followed the crowd to an auditorium, where we were supposed to do our homework. I was in the middle of a bunch of younger kids. Most of the elevens were a few rows behind me. Mike’s head was down. He was probably drawing violins. The other elevens were whispering and watching out for prefects. I opened my notebook in my lap and started drawing. I tried to draw Mr. Doom’s face, but he kept looking like a baby wearing spectacles, because of his wide cheeks and little piggy nose.
While I drew, I wondered what we were supposed to do when the next bell rang. They rang a bell here whenever they wanted you to do something—go to your classroom, leave your classroom, go to the dining room to have your food stolen.
I gave up on Mr. Doom. Nobody would want to look at a picture of him anyway. I started a letter.
Dear Papa,
You’ll never guess where I am. In an
I crossed out the words. If I kept writing, I’d start bawling in front of everybody. I opened my book to our homework. Dividing fractions. I could do it in my sleep.
The bell rang. I followed everybody again. I saw Mike turn and look for me. I yelled to him to wait, but he was too far ahead to hear. In the hall, some kids went into the stairwell at the end of the corridor. Some stood around talking. But most were heading toward the back of the Home. I went along.
Halfway down the back hallway, we turned into a short hall leading to a courtyard surrounded on all four sides by the HHB. There were streetlamps in each corner, which were on. Way above, the stars were out.
As soon as they got outside, everybody went crazy—running, kicking, punching, yelling, jumping. A few adults, probably prefects, stood in the far corner, talking to each other. I backed out. If we could do whatever we wanted, I wanted to find my suitcase and check out where I was supposed to sleep.
The orphanage was shaped like a square doughnut around the courtyard I’d just left. Classrooms and offices seemed to be on the main floor. I’d try the second floor, then the third.
Upstairs, I opened the first door I came to. Inside was an ocean of beds, rows and rows of them, with a suitcase under every one. A pair of slippers sat on the floor next to each bed. I’d never worn slippers in my life. The ones in here were too small for an eleven-year-old unless he was a midget.
Across from me were three tall windows. The glass in one of them was cracked, held in place with black tape. A table stood in the corner to my left, near the windows. The long wall behind me was lined with wooden cubbies.
The corner of a photograph stuck out from under the pillow on the bed closest to me. I lifted the pillow and saw a photo of a family—a girl about seven years old and an even younger girl, a man with a mustache, and a lady holding a baby. I put the pillow back and went on to the next room.
The slippers in there were even smaller. I kept going. I was checking the eighth room when the bell rang. I didn’t pay attention. The slippers in the ninth room seemed about my size. I looked under the beds for my suitcase. I was walking along the third row of beds when the door opened, and the elevens came in, followed by Mr. Meltzer.
I called to him, “Where’s my suitcase?”
He ignored me. I started toward him.
“It’s here,” a voice called from halfway across the room, near the door. It was Mike, waving and hopping.
My suitcase was under the bed next to his. Mike was half undressed. All over the room kids were changing into striped pajamas, like a prison uniform. I’d never worn pajamas. Mine were spread out on top of my bed. I put them on. The cloth wasn’t much softer than my iron knickers.
I wanted to show Papa’s carving to Mike so I pulled out my suitcase. It felt too light. I fumbled with the clasp.
It was empty.
Mike said something. I didn’t hear what. Mr. Meltzer was sitting across the room at a table by the windows.
I ran to him. “Who took my property?” I yelled.
He took his time answering. Finally he said, “Your things belong to the Home. Mr. Doo— Mr. Bloom’s orders.” He barked a laugh. “Complain to him.”
All right, I would. I started for the door.
Mr. Meltzer called after me, “Twenty minutes to lights-out. Be here. Or else.”
Mike followed me.
In the hall, I wheeled on him. “What do you want?”
He rubbed the top of his head and scratched one foot with the other. “They throw your old clothes away, buddy. By the time you leave here, they won’t fit you anymore anyway.”
“I don’t care about my clothes. It’s something else.” I had to get Papa’s carving back.
“When I came, I had a Farmer’s Almanac. They put it in the library.”
“It isn’t a book.”
“There’s other stuff too. There’s a wooden sail—”
“Where’s the library?”
“Come on.” He led me to one of the stairwells. Two boys chasing a third ran past us. We started downstairs. Mike kept on talking. “The people who run this place are rich, so why do they take our stuff? They think they’re going to open a suitcase and find a million dollars?” He did his strangled laugh again. “A boy has a million dollars. He could live at the Waldorf, but he’d rather freeze to death at the Hopeless House of Beggars.”
I wasn’t paying attention to Mike. I only cared about the carving.
He opened the door to the main floor. We were in the back hallway. We walked a few steps, then Mike opened a door and turned on a light switch. The walls were lined with bookcases, and there were more bookcases in the middle of the room.
“Where . . .”
Mike pointed at a glass cabinet between two windows. I went to it. It held a wooden boat, a stuffed sparrow, and shelves full of funny-looking clay animals that must have been made by kids. No carving.
“It’s not here.” We left the library.
Mr. Doom had said only bad boys saw his office again. Well, I was going back there. I’d grab the yardstick before he did.
“Are you really going to Mr. Doom?”
“You don’t have to come.”
“I’m coming. This I have to see.”
I hurried down the hall.
“I don’t think you should bother Mr. Doom,” Mike said from behind me. “You should have seen what he did to Leon.”
“Shut up. He’s not going to do anything to me.” But I was scared, a little anyway.
“I’ll get the nurse if you need her, buddy.”
The bell rang for lights out. I knocked on the door to Mr. Doom’s office.
Mike hopped up and down, ready to run. “Let’s go. He isn’t there.”
I knocked louder.
“Come on, Dave. He must have gone home. He doesn’t live here.”
I pounded on the door, and while I pounded I made my decision. I wasn’t staying in a place that stole your private possessions. I’d get my carving back, and then I’d scram.
No answer. I turned the knob. The door was locked. I didn’t know where else to look. For now.
“It’s a good thing Mr. Meltzer never hits,” Mike said as we ran back.
Mr. Meltzer was waiting outside our room. “Stinking brats. I told you to get back here.” He herded us in ahead of him. “Get into bed. Go to sleep.”
Mr. Meltzer left, and all the elevens crowded around my bed.
“Did you find Mr. Doom?” one of them asked. It was too dark to see who was talking.
“If he did, he’d be on a stretcher,” another voice said. I think it was Harvey. The voice sounded hoarse.
“He wasn’t there,” I said.
“He pounded on his office door,” Mike said, bragging about me, “like Mr. Doom should be scared of him.”
“Remember when Leon told Mr. Doom the food was lousy?” said Alfie, the kid with the cough. My eyes were getting used to the dark.
Somebody tall said, “What happened, buddy?”
“Mr. Doom whacked him so hard he flew ten feet.”
“And bounced twice.” That was one of the twins.
They started telling Mr. Doom stories. I stretched out on my bed and closed my eyes, but I heard every word. Mr. Doom’s victims lost teeth, needed stitches, needed crutches. Sixteen-year-old bullies begged for mercy, screamed for their mamas.
Finally the buddies drifted back to their beds, and gradually the feeling in the room changed as they fell asleep. I heard snoring. Someone whimpered. Someone coughed. The room was so big it was almost like sleeping outside. And it was so cold and humid that sleet could have started coming down. One blanket wasn’t enough. I put my pillow over my head to block out everyone’s noise and to keep my ears warm.
I swore an oath, whispering into the thin mattress. I would take back the carving and get out of here.
Chapter 8
I COULDN’T SLEEP. Mike was as jerky in his sleep as he was awake. One of his bed’s legs was shorter than the others, and the bed was dancing. It made such a racket I didn’t know how anybody could sleep. I stood up. Maybe I could prowl around and find the carving.
Daredevil Dave was at it again.
I tiptoed to the door, holding my slippers. Outside I blinked in the light of the hall. Two doors away from me, at the end of the corridor, Mr. Meltzer sat in a chair. I got ready to say I had to go to the toilet, but he didn’t move, and I realized he was asleep.
I put on my slippers and walked a few steps. He still didn’t move. I clapped my hands softly. He shifted in his chair and started snoring. I headed for the stairwell at the opposite end of the corridor, walking fast, but quietly.
The door to the stairwell creaked. I looked back, frightened. He was still asleep. I closed the door gently behind me and let out a deep breath. There was no light on the stairs. I took my slippers off again and felt my way down, hanging on to the banister.
I wondered if any prefects were prowling around. If I was caught, I’d say, “Where am I? Where’s Ida? Why am I in an icebox?” They’d think I was sleepwalking. At least I hoped they would.
The first floor was dark, but I was used to it by now. I stood still, listening. My stomach rumbled. It sounded loud enough to wake Mr. Meltzer. The corner of the corridor showed ahead, a deeper black than the rest of the gloom. Touching the wall as I went, I edged along.
I didn’t know the asylum well enough to guess where they’d put a carving. I came to a door and turned the knob. Locked. The next one was too. All the doors on both sides of the corridor were locked. Even the library was locked now.
At the end of the hall, it was a little less dark. I pictured Mr. Doom in the lobby, holding his yardstick, waiting to ambush roving boys.
I glided along, as quiet as snow. Till I stepped on a loose tile. Clink. Not loud, but it echoed in the hall and pounded in my ears.
Should I run? No. Running would make more noise. I flattened myself against the wall. I heard a bong and flew two feet straight up. I dropped a slipper.
It was the clock outside, over the entrance. It had struck during the day, but it hadn’t sounded so loud. There were lots of bongs. Eleven o’clock. I tiptoed to the end of the hall and turned the corner.
The corridor was empty, and the lobby looked empty too. I checked the office doors on the way to the front door, but they were all locked. The front door was locked too, only the lock was on my side for a change. I guessed it was to keep burglars out. I was surprised there wasn’t another one to keep us in.
The lock turned. I swung the door open and stepped outside. Out of the Home.
It was slightly warmer out here. There was a breeze, and clouds raced across the moon. I breathed in deeply. The air was fresh and clean. Maybe I should forget the carving, just leave and never come back.
But I couldn’t forget it.
I could leave, though, and come back before anybody woke up. I grinned, thinking of all the rules I’d be breaking. I walked to the gate, swinging my arms.
When I got there I saw why it had been easy to open the front door. The gate to the wrought-iron fence that circled the HHB was locked, and you needed a key to open it.
I pushed through the bushes that grew against the fence to see if I could squeeze between the posts, but they were too close together. And the crossbar was too high for me to reach.
>
I was a prisoner.
On the 136th Street side of the HHB, there was a smaller gate. It was locked too, but an oak tree grew nearby, and a big branch stretched over into the land of the free.
The lowest branch was beyond my reach, but the trunk had a crack about three feet up that I could fit my foot in. I tucked my slippers into the waist of my pajamas. Then I stepped into the crack and launched myself at the lowest branch. I fell three times, but I made it on the fourth try.
From my perch in the tree I looked around. All the lights were out in the Home. The street outside was quiet. I climbed up to the branch that hung over the fence. From there I stepped onto the fence’s crossbar. Then it was easy. I slid down the fence.
I didn’t know the neighborhood. I’d only seen Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue. Broadway was too busy, so I went the other way, toward Amsterdam Avenue.
I stood on the HHB side of Amsterdam and 136th Street. Across Amsterdam was a concrete wall, hiding who-knew-what. I crossed and walked along 136th Street next to the wall. No one was out here with me.
The concrete wall ended halfway down the block, and I found out what was behind it: a huge stadium, with rows and rows of empty seats. I waved to the seats. I took a bow. Orphan escapes from Hated Home for Boys. Hurrah! I bowed again.
Across the next street—Convent Avenue—was a vacant lot with brown weeds up to my waist and no sidewalk. I pushed through to the next avenue, Saint Nicholas Terrace, where a woodsy park sloped down steeply in front of me. Beyond it, streetlights and lighted windows twinkled.
Papa would not want me to go into that park. He wouldn’t want me to be out here at all. He’d want me and Gideon to be sharing our old couch, with Ida in the next room. And he’d like to be there too, alive. I swallowed. He wasn’t getting anything he wanted.
I climbed over a low wall and stepped into the park. The wind ruffled the leaves that were still on the trees. Dead leaves crackled under my feet. When I got Papa’s carving back, I could build a place to live in here. As I walked, I looked for good hideouts. I saw an outcropping of rock. There might be a cave. I’d be a hermit. I’d set traps for mice and squirrels, and I’d roast them over the fire I made. I’d get a chisel from somewhere and teach myself to make carvings like Papa did. I’d live in the park by day, but at night I’d roam. I’d break into the HHB and set the elevens free. We’d live together like Robin Hood and his merry band.
Dave at Night Page 4
