The Wednesday Wars

by Gary D. Schmidt

  ***

  I didn't tell anyone about the river that morning. Not even Meryl Lee. I think that if I had told Pastor McClellan, he would have said it was a vision. I think if I had told Mrs. Baker, she would have said that it was a miracle, that all dawns were miracles—miracles being much on her mind lately, as you can understand. I think that if I had told Shakespeare about the river, he would have said, "All this amazement can I qualify"—but he would have been wrong, since what I saw was something more beautiful than has ever been written.

  But I didn't tell anyone.

  Not even Danny, who was hoping for a miracle, right up to the day of his bar mitzvah.

  You could see him waiting for the worst to happen when he stood up in the synagogue a week later—a synagogue that was full, mostly with Hupfers. Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Bigio and Mrs. Sidman sat near the front. Mai Thi and Meryl Lee and Heather and I sat behind a group of ancient Hupfers—I was trying to keep my borrowed yarmulka on the back of my head, because it felt like it was slipping down all the time. And our parents were there, too—even my father, who, I guess, figured that Mr. Hupfer might someday need an architect, and so he had better show up. It was sort of like an investment. He sat as far away from Mr. Kowalski as he could.

  We all watched as Danny pulled the prayer shawl his great-uncle had given him around his shoulders. The tassels reached below his waist. Then he wound the tefillin around his arm and across his forehead. You could see him still waiting for the worst, hoping for a miracle. Then the prayers. Still waiting. Then he walked with the rabbi and cantor back to the altar and took out the Torah. We all stood—I reached up to press down my yarmulka—and he carried the Torah back to the reading desk. The rabbi drew it from its mantle, untied the scroll, and rolled it open.

  A huge breath from Danny. Still waiting.

  And then—can you believe it?—the miracle came after all.

  He lifted one of the tassels, touched it to the scroll, kissed it. He took the handles of the Torah in his own hands. And he began to sing.

  Baruch et Adonai ha'mevorach.

  And everyone around us sang back.

  Baruch Adonai ha'mevorach I'olam va'ed.

  And Danny sang again, deep and steady, until he got to "Baruch ata Adonai, noteyn ha'torah," when everyone sang back, just as deep and just as steady, "Amen."

  Then Danny took a deep breath and began to read from the Torah.

  Okay, so maybe sometimes the real world is smiles and miracles. Right there in front of us, Danny Hupfer was no longer Danny who stuck wads of gum under his desk. Or Danny who screamed out of his skull at soccer games. Or Danny who ran cross-country on bloody knees and waved sweaty T-shirts.

  He was more than all of those things. He sang the words, and he was everyone who had sung them before him, like he was taking up his place in this huge choir and it wasn't Miss Violet of the Very Spiky Heels but God Himself leading the music. You saw Danny covered with weight.

  Then the cantor and Danny's father stood over him and blessed him. More weight.

  And Danny chanted again, this time from the Prophets. More weight.

  And then he reached into his back pocket and took out his speech, his Dvar Torah. "Today," he said, "I am become a man."

  And he had.

  You could see it afterward, when he recited the blessings over the challah, and over the wine, and everyone shouted "L'chayim!" "To life!"

  Danny had become a man. You could see him take up his place. And he was smiling. And crying, too.

  After the service, my parents and Heather decided not to stay for the party already starting in the reception hall. When they asked if I wanted a ride, I told them I would walk home instead. But I went to the parking lot with them anyway.

  As he unlocked the car, my father said, "I bet you're glad you don't have to go through something like that."

  "I guess I am," I said.

  "What do you mean, 'I guess I am'?" he said. "Would you want to stand up there with all that stuff all over you and chant at everyone?"

  "It was a whole lot more than chanting at everyone," I said.

  "Let's get in the car," said my mother.

  "No," said my father. He put his arms up on top of the station wagon's roof. "I'd like to know what Holling thought was a whole lot more."

  My stomach got tight. "He became a man," I said.

  "You think that's how you become a man, by chanting a few prayers?"

  "You think you become a man by getting a job as an architect?"

  My father straightened. "That's exactly how you become a man," he said. "You get a good job and you provide for your family. You hang on, and you play for keeps. That's how it works."

  "I really do think we should get in the car," said my mother.

  "I don't think so," I said to my father. "It's not just about a job. It's more. It has to do with choosing for yourself."

  "And you didn't even have to go to California to figure all that out," said my father. "So who are you, Holling?"

  I felt Heather looking at me. And somehow—I don't know how—I thought of Bobby Kennedy, who could have made all the difference.

  "I don't know yet," I said finally. "I'll let you know."

  "What a barrel of mumbo-jumbo," said my father. He got into the station wagon and slammed the door. My mother blew me a kiss—really—and then she got in, too.

  And my sister got in last of all.

  She was smiling.

  I could hardly breathe.

  When they drove away, I went back inside Temple Beth-El, where the sounds of the miracle were still loud. Danny was still smiling—and it wasn't just because Mr. Goldman had brought huge trays of brown, light, perfect cream puffs. He couldn't stop smiling. And after a while, I couldn't, either—especially once the dancing started and Meryl Lee took my hand. And even more especially after Meryl Lee said, "You look different," and I said, "Maybe it's the yarmulka," and she said, "No, something else."

  Meryl Lee. Can the world buy such a jewel?

  It was when I had gone to find her a Coke that I saw Mrs. Baker, standing alone beside a pile of sugared strawberries. She was holding one in her hand, smiling, too.

  Now, I know that you're not supposed to talk to a teacher outside of school activities. It's a rule that probably no one has ever broken. But I decided to break it anyway.

  "Do you think Lieutenant Baker will really be home in time for strawberries?" I said.

  Mrs. Baker, smiling Mrs. Baker, did not look away from the strawberry. "I'm sure of it," she said.

  Now I smiled. "Do teachers always know the future?"

  "Always," she said. "Shall I tell you yours?"

  Standing there in the music of the bar mitzvah party, feeling the weight of what had happened in the synagogue, I saw again the glittering stream, with its light rushing toward me. "Don't tell me," I said. "But how do you know?"

  She looked away from the strawberry and at me. "Do you remember Don Pedro, standing alone at the end of the play?"

  I nodded. "Claudio has Hero, and they'll be fine. Benedict has Beatrice, and they'll be fine. Everyone else has everyone else, and they'll all be fine. The only one who's left alone is Don Pedro. And they all go off to dance and leave him behind. And they don't even remember that he's the one who has to deal with a traitor tomorrow, or that he hasn't got anyone."

  "That's right," said Mrs. Baker. "And maybe his whole country will split into pieces. He doesn't have any idea what's going to happen to him."

  "Great comedy," I said.

  "A comedy isn't about being funny," said Mrs. Baker.

  "We've talked about this before."

  "A comedy is about characters who dare to know that they may choose a happy ending after all. That's how I know."

  "Suppose you can't see it?"

  "That's the daring part," said Mrs. Baker.

  "So you think Don Pedro ended up all right," I said.

  "I think he became a man who brought peace and wisdom to his world, because he knew
about war and folly. I think that he loved greatly, because he had seen what lost love is. And I think he came to know, too, that he was loved greatly." She looked at the strawberry in her hands. "But I thought you didn't want me to tell you your future."

  The music started again. A quick ring dance. Danny Hupfer was going to dance with Mrs. Bigio, and Mai Thi was doubled over, laughing. Mrs. Sidman had stepped into the ring beside Doug Swieteck—who didn't look all that happy. The Kowalskis and the Hupfers had come in together, Mrs. Hupfer and Mrs. Kowalski giggling and in their stocking feet, since you can't dance in high heels. And Meryl Lee...

  Everyone was laughing and jostling to their places. I needed to go find mine.

  "L'chayim!" I said to Mrs. Baker.

  And she smiled—not a teacher smile. "Chrysanthemum," she said.

  Eleven days later, on Wednesday, Lieutenant Tybalt Baker came home.

  It was the day that President Lyndon B. Johnson announced that the marines were abandoning Khesanh.

  I was at the airport. Me and Danny and Mai Thi and Meryl Lee and Doug and the whole class. Standing on the tarmac when the military plane landed.

  We all held boxes of sweet strawberries.

  I guess you want to know what Mrs. Baker did when Lieutenant Baker came out of the plane. And I guess you want to know what Lieutenant Baker did when he saw Mrs. Baker on the tarmac.

  But toads, beetles, bats. If you can't figure that out for yourself, then a southwest blow on ye and blister you all o'er.

  Because let me tell you, it was a happy ending.

  Okay for Now

  Okay for Now

  by Gary D. Schmidt

  CLARION BOOKS

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Boston New York 2011

  CLARION BOOKS

  215 Park Avenue South

  New York, New York 10003

  Copyright © 2011 by Gary D. Schmidt

  All illustrations courtesy of The Audubon Society.

  All rights reserved. For information about permission

  to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions,

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  The text of this book is set in 13-point Garamond No. 3.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2010942981

  ISBN 978-0-547-15260-8

  HMH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Arctic Tern Plate CCL

  JOE PEPITONE once gave me his New York Yankees baseball cap.

  I'm not lying.

  He gave it to me. To me, Doug Swieteck. To me.

  Joe Pepitone and Horace Clarke came all the way out on the Island to Camillo Junior High and I threw with them. Me and Danny Hupfer and Holling Hoodhood, who were good guys. We all threw with Joe Pepitone and Horace Clarke, and we batted too. They sang to us while we swung away: "He's a batta, he's a batta-batta-batta, he's a batta..." That was their song.

  And afterward, Horace Clarke gave Danny his cap, and Joe Pepitone gave Holling his jacket (probably because he felt sorry for him on account of his dumb name), and then Joe Pepitone handed me his cap. He reached out and took it off his head and handed it to me. Just like that. It was signed on the inside, so anyone could tell that it was really his. Joe Pepitone's.

  It was the only thing I ever owned that hadn't belonged to some other Swieteck before me.

  I hid it for four and a half months. Then my stupid brother found out about it. He came in at night when I was asleep and whipped my arm up behind my back so high I couldn't even scream it hurt so bad and he told me to decide if I wanted a broken arm or if I wanted to give him Joe Pepitone's baseball cap. I decided on the broken arm. Then he stuck his knee in the center of my spine and asked if I wanted a broken back along with the broken arm, and so I told him Joe Pepitone's cap was in the basement behind the oil furnace.

  It wasn't, but he went downstairs anyway. That's what a chump he is.

  So I threw on a T-shirt and shorts and Joe Pepitone's cap—which was under my pillow the whole time, the jerk—and got outside. Except he caught me. Dragged me behind the garage. Took Joe Pepitone's baseball cap. Pummeled me in places where the bruises wouldn't show.

  A strategy that my ... is none of your business.

  I think he kept the cap for ten hours—just long enough for me to see him with it at school. Then he traded it to Link Vitelli for cigarettes, and Link Vitelli kept it for a day—just long enough for me to see him with it at school. Then Link traded it to Glenn Dillard for a comb. A comb! And Glenn Dillard kept it for a day—just long enough for me to see him with it at school. Then Glenn lost it while driving his brother's Mustang without a license and with the top down, the jerk. It blew off somewhere on Jerusalem Avenue. I looked for it for a week.

  I guess now it's in a gutter, getting rained on or something. Probably anyone who walks by looks down and thinks it's a piece of junk.

  They're right. That's all it is. Now.

  But once, it was the only thing I ever owned that hadn't belonged to some other Swieteck before me.

  I know. That means a big fat zero to anyone else.

  I tried to talk to my father about it. But it was a wrong day. Most days are wrong days. Most days he comes home red-faced with his eyes half closed and with that deadly silence that lets you know he'd have a whole lot to say if he ever let himself get started and no one better get him started because there's no telling when he'll stop and if he ever did get started then pretty Mr. Culross at freaking Culross Lumber better not be the one to get him started because he'd punch pretty Mr. Culross's freaking lights out and he didn't care if he did lose his job over it because it's a lousy job anyway.

  That was my father not letting himself get started.

  But I had a plan.

  All I had to do was get my father to take me to Yankee Stadium. That's all. If I could just see Joe Pepitone one more time. If I could just tell him what happened to my baseball cap. He'd look at me, and he'd laugh and rough up my hair, and then he'd take off his cap and he'd put it on my head. "Here, Doug," Joe Pepitone would say. Like that. "Here, Doug. You look a whole lot better in it than I do." That's what Joe Pepitone would say. Because that's the kind of guy he is.

  That was the plan. And all I had to do was get my father to listen.

  But I picked a wrong day. Because there aren't any right days.

  And my father said, "Are you crazy? Are you freaking crazy? I work forty-five hours a week to put food on the table for you, and you want me to take you to Yankee Stadium because you lost some lousy baseball cap?"

  "It's not just some lousy—"

  That's all I got out. My father's hands are quick. That's the kind of guy he is.

  Who knows how much my father got out the day he finally let himself get started saying what he wanted to say to pretty Mr. Culross and didn't even try to stop himself from saying it. But whatever he said, he came home with a pretty good shiner, because pretty Mr. Culross turned out to have hands even quicker than my father's.

  And pretty Mr. Culross had one other advantage: he could fire my father if he wanted to.

  So my father came home with his lunch pail in his hand and a bandage on his face and the last check he would ever see from Culross Lumber, Inc., and he looked at my mother and said, "Don't you say a thing," and he looked at me and said, "Still worried about a lousy baseball cap?" and he went upstairs and started making phone calls.

  Mom kept us in the kitchen.

  He came down when we were finishing supper, and Mom jumped up from the table and brought over the plate she'd been keeping warm in the oven. She set it down in front of him.

  "It's not all dried out, is it?" he said.

  "I don't think so," Mom said.

&n
bsp; "You don't think so," he said, then took off the aluminum foil, sighed, and reached for the ketchup. He smeared it all over his meat loaf. Thick.

  Took a red bite.

  "We're moving," he said.

  Chewed.

  "Moving?" said my mother.

  "To Marysville. Upstate." Another red bite. Chewing. "Ballard Paper Mill has a job, and Ernie Eco says he can get me in."

  "Ernie Eco," said my mother quietly.

  "Don't you start about him," said my father.

  "So it will begin all over again."

  "I said—"

  "The bars, being gone all night, coming back home when you're—"

  My father stood up.

  "Which of your sons will it be this time?" my mother said.

  My father looked at me.

  I put my eyes down and worked at what was left of my meat loaf.

  It took us three days to pack. My mother didn't talk much the whole time. The first morning, she asked only two questions.

  "How are we going to let Lucas know where we've gone?"

  Lucas is my oldest brother who stopped beating me up a year and a half ago when the United States Army drafted him to beat up Vietcong instead. He's in a delta somewhere but we don't know any more than that because he isn't allowed to tell us and he doesn't write home much anyway. Fine by me.

  My father looked up from his two fried eggs. "How are we going to let Lucas know where we've gone? The U.S. Postal Service," he said in that kind of voice that makes you feel like you are the dope of the world. "And didn't I tell you over easy?" He pushed the plate of eggs away, picked up his mug of coffee, and looked out the window. "I'm not going to miss this freaking place," he said.

  Then, "Are you going to rent a truck?" my mother asked, real quiet.

  My father sipped his coffee. Sipped again.

  "Ernie Eco will be down with a truck from the mill," he said.

  My mother didn't ask anything else.