The Wednesday Wars

by Gary D. Schmidt

  "It's a point of local architectural interest," I said.

  So we went in.

  It was the first Catholic church I'd ever been inside, mostly because Catholic churches are supposed to be filled with idols and smoking incense that would make you so woozy that you'd give in and start praying on your knees, which Presbyterians know is something that should not be done. But it wasn't like that at all. We came in, Mrs. Baker dropped some money into the offering box, and we walked down the main aisle. The afternoon light slanted down through the high windows, so that up close to the ceiling the air was flecked with glowing gold specks. Down below where we were, it was shadowy and warm. I ran my hand over the dark wood of the pews, worn smooth. There was no carpet, so we could hear our own footsteps as we walked toward the altar, where a crucifix hung suspended—a pale white Christ with bright red wounds.

  For a hundred years, people have been coming together in this dark, I thought, breathing quietly and evenly. For a hundred years. It made me wonder.

  "Mrs. Baker," I said.

  "Yes, Holling."

  "I have a question."

  "Yes."

  "It doesn't have anything to do with points of local architectural interest."

  "That's all right."

  "After the game at Yankee Stadium, when Mel Stottlemyre took you up to meet the boss, did you ask him to have Kowalski and Associates do the renovations so that Meryl Lee could stay?"

  A pause.

  "Whether or not I spoke about the renovations to Yankee Stadium is not something you need to know, Holling."

  "Then I have a second question."

  "Does this one have anything to do with points of local architectural interest?"

  "Yes."

  "What is it?"

  "If an atomic bomb drops on Camillo Junior High, everything we've seen today will be gone, won't it?"

  Another long pause.

  "Yes," she said, finally.

  "And it really doesn't matter if we're under our desks with our hands over our heads or not, does it?"

  "No," said Mrs. Baker. "It really doesn't matter."

  "So why are we practicing?"

  She thought for a minute. "Because it gives comfort," she said. "People like to think that if they're prepared, then nothing bad can really happen. And perhaps we practice because we feel as if there's nothing else we can do, because sometimes it feels as if life is governed by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."

  "Is there anything else we can do?"

  She smiled. Not a teacher smile.

  "Two things," she said. "First, learn to diagram sentences—and it is rude to roll your eyes, Holling. Learn everything you can—everything. And then use all that you have learned to grow up to be a wise and good man. That's the first thing. As for the second..."

  I lit a candle in a Catholic church for the first time that afternoon. Me, a Presbyterian. I lit a candle in the warm, dark, waxy-smelling air of Saint Adelbert's. I put it beside the one that Mrs. Baker lit. I don't know what she prayed for, but I prayed that no atomic bomb would ever drop on Camillo Junior High or the Quaker meetinghouse or the old jail or Temple Emmanuel or Hicks Park or Saint Paul's Episcopal School or Saint Adelbert's.

  I prayed for Lieutenant Baker, missing in action somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam near Khesanh.

  I prayed for Danny Hupfer, sweating it out in Hebrew school right then.

  I prayed for my sister, driving in a yellow bug toward California—or maybe she was there already, trying to find herself.

  And I hoped that it was okay to pray for a bunch of things with one candle.

  ***

  That afternoon when I came back home, the station wagon was gone, and the Mustang was gone, and the whole house was empty.

  Even the mailbox was empty, except for a flyer for my sister from the Robert Kennedy campaign, announcing that he would be stopping on Long Island before the New York primary. My sister would have flipped.

  And I realized that the biggest part of the empty in the house was my sister being gone. Maybe the first time that you know you really care about something is when you think about it not being there, and you know—you really know—that the emptiness is as much inside you as outside you. For it so falls out, that what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, why, then we rack the value, then we find the virtue that possession would not show us while it was ours.

  That's when I knew for the first time that I really did love my sister. But I didn't know if I wanted more for her to come back or for her to find whatever it was that she was trying to find.

  See, this is the kind of stuff you start to think about when you're reading Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. You just can't help being kind of melancholy—even though if you had to play him on stage at the Festival Theater, at least you'd be a prince and wearing a black cape instead of being a fairy and wearing yellow tights.

  And that's why, when my sister called that night—long after my mother and father had gone to bed, when she knew that I would be the only one awake to pick up the phone—I started to cry right away.

  And she did, too.

  Both of us not saying anything, just crying into the telephone.

  What jerks.

  Somewhere in between all the crying, I heard that she was in Minneapolis—which I guess is on the way to California—that she was alone, that she had exactly $4 left in her pocket, that she didn't know what she was going to do since a bus ticket to New York City cost $44.55, that I couldn't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever tell Dad or Mom that she called because she couldn't bear to hear what they would say to her and she wasn't sure if they even would say anything to her, and what was she going to do now?

  I guess she hadn't found herself.

  "Where are you?" I said.

  "In the bus station. How else do you think I'd know that a ticket to New York City costs $44.55?"

  "Is there a Western Union window there?"

  "Of course there's a Western Union window here. All bus stations have a Western Union window." She paused a moment. I guess she was looking around. "Holling?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't see a Western Union window here."

  The operator told us that we were almost out of time and we should deposit thirty-five cents for another three minutes.

  "I don't have any more coins!" yelled my sister.

  "Get to the nearest Western Union station tomorrow morning," I said quickly. "I'll—" Then the phone went dead. All because of a stupid thirty-five cents in coins. Like Bell Telephone was going to go bankrupt because of one phone call from Minneapolis to Long Island in the middle of the night.

  I didn't know if my sister had heard what I'd said at the end. But the next morning, I was waiting outside the Commerce Bank on—I'm not kidding here—Commerce Street when it opened at 10:00. This may not sound like a big deal, but if you knew that Commerce Street was only a block over from Lee Avenue, and that I'd been hiding from eyes that would have wondered why I wasn't in Camillo Junior High for the last hour, you'd be impressed.

  I handed my $100 Salisbury Park savings bond to the teller.

  "Aren't you supposed to be in school?" she said.

  "I'm a little worried that an atomic bomb might drop on it," I said.

  "Probably the school will make it through the day," she said. "What do you want to do with this bond?"

  "I need to turn it in for cash."

  She looked at the date. "If you turn it in for cash now, you'll only get fifty-two dollars. If you hold on to it, in just a few years it will be worth a hundred dollars."

  "I don't have a few years," I said.

  "Because of the atomic bomb?"

  "No."

  She turned the savings bond over and looked at it again. "Do your parents know that you're cashing this in?"

  "Yes," I said.

  I know, I know. You don't have to tell me.

  The teller fingered the savings bond. "All right," she said finally.
"Fifty-two dollars. I hope you're going to do something worthwhile with the money."

  I nodded, and she counted the bills out onto the counter.

  Further down on Commerce Street was the Western Union. I put the money up on the counter.

  "I need to send all this cash to Minneapolis," I said.

  "It's going for a visit, is it?" said the Western Union man. This was worse than a teacher joke. This was even worse than a nurse joke.

  "I need to send it to my sister."

  The Western Union man counted it out. "That's a lot of money," he said. "Where are you sending it exactly?"

  "To the Western Union closest to the Minneapolis bus station."

  "Huh," he said. He pulled out a directory and thumbed through it. It took about half an hour before he found Minneapolis.

  "Well," he said slowly, taking his glasses off, "looks like they've got two bus stations. There's the one on Heather Avenue. And there's the one on LaSalle."

  "Heather Avenue," I said. "Send it to the one on Heather Avenue."

  The Western Union man put his glasses back on. "It'll cost you $1.75," he said.

  "Fine."

  "And what's the name of the recipient?"

  I told him, and he took the money and sent $50.25 to Minneapolis, Minnesota, to a Western Union station on Heather Avenue, even though I didn't know if my sister was at that station or if she even knew that money was coming. I thought of her sitting alone in a place where everyone else was going somewhere, or wandering the streets of Minneapolis, looking for a way to come home to a place that was emptier without her.

  Sort of like Hamlet, who, more than anything, needed to find a home—because he sure couldn't find himself.

  I spent the afternoon hiding around town—which is not easy, since this isn't that big a town, and it would take a whole lot less than an atomic bomb to make it disappear, and since anyone who saw me might tell the Chamber of Commerce Businessman of 1967 or Mrs. Baker. And if either of them heard ... well, put me under that bomb.

  I waited for a call from my sister that night. But it didn't come until late Friday night. From Chicago.

  On the way.

  On Saturday morning, I told my parents at breakfast that my sister would be at the Port Authority in New York at 10:50 that morning.

  They looked at me like I had just chanted Hebrew.

  "She'll be in the Port Authority at ten fifty?" repeated my mother. Her hand was up to her mouth, and her eyes suddenly filled.

  "Yes," I said.

  "How is she going to get home from there?" asked my father.

  "I guess she was hoping you would go and pick her up."

  "Of course," said my father. "Of course I'll drop everything and pick her up. Of course I have nothing else to do." He stood up. "If she went out in a yellow bug, she can come home in a yellow bug."

  "She's alone," I said.

  "You're not going to see me driving all the way into the city on a Saturday. She can take the train."

  "She may be out of money."

  "Well, whose problem is that?" he said.

  "It doesn't matter whose problem it is. She can't get back home unless you go get her," I said.

  He looked at me. "Who do you think you're talking to?" he said.

  "She needs help."

  "Then you go get her, Holling. The car keys are up on my dresser." He laughed.

  "Okay," I said.

  "Okay," he said, and went outside to start up the lawn mower.

  I went upstairs and got the car keys. The Ford Mustang car keys—not the station wagon.

  "Holling," said my mother when I came back down. "I think he was being sarcastic."

  I went to the front closet and found my jacket.

  "Holling, what are you doing?"

  I held up the car keys. "I'm driving into New York City to pick up my sister from the Port Authority Bus Terminal at ten fifty. "

  "You don't know how to drive."

  "I've seen movies."

  I went to the front door.

  "Holling," said my mother.

  I turned around.

  "You can't drive in by yourself."

  "Then come with me."

  She looked out to the backyard. "We can't do that, either," she said, and her voice was as sad and lost as Loneliness.

  I went out to the garage and sat in the Mustang. The red leather still smelled new. The steering wheel felt right in my hands.

  It wasn't like I'd never driven before. My mother had let me drive the station wagon around parking lots—the big ones down at Jones Beach, where you can go for two or three miles before you hit anything more dangerous than a seagull. I'd gotten out of first gear plenty of times, and even up into third gear twice. And the Mustang was smaller and handier than the station wagon. I probably just had to think about turning and the car would feel it.

  But driving around Jones Beach parking lots is a whole lot different from driving on the Long Island Expressway into New York City. And even if I could get on to the expressway, I wouldn't know what exit to get off.

  Toads, beetles, bats.

  I came back inside. I threw the keys on the kitchen counter. My mother was putting out a cigarette and starting to make pound cake for lunch.

  Outside, the mower fussed at the edges of the lawn.

  I went into the living room and sat down on the couch.

  And Meryl Lee called.

  Because her father was going in to Yankee Stadium.

  Would I like to come?

  "Can I get to the Port Authority from Yankee Stadium?" I said.

  Meryl Lee asked her father.

  "It's too far, but he says that if you can leave right now, we'll have just enough time to drop you off." She was quiet a moment. "I think he feels like he owes you something," she said.

  I went into the kitchen. "I need money for two train tickets," I said.

  "Train tickets?" my mother said.

  "And money for two lunches."

  She stared at me.

  "Big lunches," I said.

  She went upstairs for her pocketbook.

  I was there when the bus from Chicago pulled in at 10:50.

  The Port Authority was all noise and rushing. The accumulated combustion from the buses had thickened the air. The whoosh and squeak and hollering of the brakes and the distorted announcements over the P.A. system and the newsboys hawking and the pell-mell of more bodies than belong in any one building gave the place a general roar. As for the floor, you couldn't have found a greater confusion if the ceiling had been lifted off and the sky had rained down ticket stubs and newspapers and Baby Ruth wrappers.

  But as soon as the 10:50 bus from Chicago parked itself, everything stopped. The rush, the roar, the squeak, the whoosh—they all stopped. Really. Like Leonid Brezhnev had sent over an atomic bomb and wiped it all out.

  They did not start up again until my sister got off the bus, and she ran out of the diesel combustion and right to me, and we held each other, and we were not empty at all.

  "Holling," she said, "I was so afraid I wouldn't find you."

  "I was standing right here, Heather," I said. "I'll always be standing right here."

  For lunch, we had grilled cheese sandwiches and Cokes and chocolate doughnuts at a counter in the Port Authority. Outside, we bought pretzels from a stand, and then we walked to Central Park, hand in hand. We lay down in the Sheep Meadow, and my sister told me about driving west, with the sun on your face. We got up and walked around the Pond, and stopped at an outcropping of boulders that fell out of the woods. Around us was every shade of green you could ever hope to imagine, broken up here and there with a flowering tree blushing to a light pink. All the colors were garbled and reflected in the tiny ripples of the water. Then through the wandering paths of the Ramble, looking as if we were up in the mountains of California, and then across Bethesda Terrace, where we sat on the stone walls and traced the carvings with our fingers until someone hollered at us to get off there! Then back along the
Mall underneath tall elms, until we passed the statue of—no kidding—William Shakespeare, who stared down at us sternly, probably because he is wearing tights and is embarrassed doing that in front of everybody.

  We walked slowly. We talked a little. I told her about our atomic bomb drills and about our town and about The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. She told me about Minneapolis and how she got out of the yellow bug and wouldn't get back in and how Chit drove away, and about going to the Western Union and finding the money for the ticket, and falling asleep for the first time in two days on the bus to Chicago. But mostly we didn't talk. It was spring in Central Park, and being there with my sister was enough.

  We took the train out of the city and walked from the station. When we got back home, it didn't matter that my mother had made us burned grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. It was just so good that the house wasn't empty anymore.

  My father said only one thing during supper:

  "Did you find yourself?"

  "What?" said my sister.

  "Did you find yourself?"

  "She found me," I said.

  By the end of The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Laertes is stabbed, the queen is poisoned, and the king is poisoned and stabbed—which is pretty much the same thing that happens to Hamlet. By the time it's all over, there are these dead bodies all over the stage, and even though Horatio is hoping that flights of angels are coming to sing Hamlet to his rest, it's hard to believe that there's any rest for him. Maybe he knew that. Maybe that's why he dressed in black all the time. Maybe it's why he was never happy. Maybe he looked in the wrong places trying to find himself.

  Or maybe he never had someone to tell him that he didn't need to find himself. He just needed to let himself be found.

  That's what I think Shakespeare was trying to say about what it means to be a human being in The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

  And speaking of being found, that's what happened to Lieutenant Baker, too!

  Really.

  After almost three months in the jungles of Vietnam, he got found.

  I was there on the last Wednesday afternoon of May, a cool and blue day, when Mrs. Sidman came in with an envelope and handed it to Mrs. Baker. She took it with hands that were trembling. She tore the top slowly open, and then stood there, holding the telegram, unable to pull it out to read it.