Cold War on Maplewood Street (3 page)

Everything Is Different

CLANG! BANG! CLANG!
JOANNA COVERED HER HEAD WITH
her pillow. Stupid radiator! Couldn't it heat up without making such a racket?

The pillow was lifted from her head. Joanna halfway opened one eye.

“Are you all right?” Mom's cool hand settled on Joanna's forehead. “I've been calling and calling.”

“I'm okay.” Joanna yawned. “Just tired.” She hesitated for a moment, then confided, “I had a bad dream.”

“Oh, honey.” The bed dipped as Mom sat down next to Joanna and hugged her. “Are you all right?” she repeated, but this time more softly.

“Sure,” Joanna said lightly. “It was just a dream, right?” But she leaned into the hug and inhaled the comforting
scent of Ivory soap mingled with Jergens hand cream—the scent that said “Mom” without any words at all.

Mom squeezed Joanna's shoulder. “It's a brand-new day. Let the dreams go.”

If only she could! Last night's dream was still as clear and real as ever. “I just wish Sam . . .” But Joanna didn't bother to finish her wish. There was no point. No amount of wishing was going to bring Sam back. Not for a long time anyway.

Mom's lips parted. For a moment Joanna thought Mom was going to say that she wished Sam hadn't joined the navy, too. But instead she said, “You should write to him, Joanna. You'd feel better. I know you would.” She glanced at the transistor radio on Joanna's bedside table and shook her head. “You haven't even thanked him for the radio he sent you.” A note of exasperation had crept into Mom's voice.

Joanna sat up and shook her head hard. She thrust out her chin. “I told him I wouldn't write and I meant it.”

“But you didn't
really
mean it, Jo. You know you didn't. You were just hurt and angry that he was leaving.”

That was true. But it didn't matter. When Joanna made a promise, she kept it. Not like some people.

Mom added softly, “Your brother loves you very much, Joanna.”

“Then he should have stayed home,” Joanna replied stiffly.

Mom sighed. She looked at Joanna for a long moment before she stood up, making the mattress jiggle. “You're running late. Better hurry.” Then she left.

Joanna looked at her radio. It was her most precious possession. The morning she had taken it to school, for once
she
had been the one at the center of an admiring huddle of classmates. Even Sherry didn't have anything as cool as a radio so tiny it could fit in the palm of her hand. And even though Joanna knew it was meant as a bribe to make her forgive Sam, she couldn't shove it in her drawer with his letters and ignore it the way the angry part of her wanted to. It was too perfect. Too special. It was irresistible.

It was her favorite color, turquoise. It had earphones, so if she wanted to, she could listen and no one else could. And she could take it anywhere just by slipping it into a pocket. Every time she turned it on, she felt a twinge of shame. But she turned it on anyway.

She hadn't written to Sam since he'd left. Not even to add a PS to one of her mother's letters. Still, he wrote to her at least once a week. Not writing to him was her only way to show him how much he'd hurt her. She knew it was childish. She knew she wouldn't be able to keep it up forever. But the hurt inside her still burned nearly as hot as it had the day Sam had left. She couldn't forgive him. Not yet.

Joanna picked up the radio, but before she turned it
on, she paused. What if instead of music there was more scary talk about Russia and war? What if—what if a war had already started? Her stomach knotted. But she had to know. She took a deep breath, held it, and turned the dial.

“That was the Four Seasons, kids,” the DJ announced over the last notes of “Sherry.” “It's number three for the second week in a row. And the top two songs are coming up right after a quick weather report. Don't go 'way!”

Joanna exhaled loudly. If anything awful was going on in the world—like war breaking out—it would be all over the radio. Mom was right. Everything was going to be fine.

She tossed the covers over her bed and snatched a skirt and blouse from her closet as she listened to the forecast for another chilly October day. She was tugging a sweater over her blouse when the DJ returned to announce, “Here's the number two song, and a great tune for the week before Halloween”—cymbals crashed—”‘Monster Mash,' by Bobby ‘Boris' Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers.”

Joanna couldn't resist. She sang along with the funny song and danced while the radiator under her window banged in the background like a bad drummer.

“Corn Flakes or Rice Krispies?” Mom called from the kitchen.

“Corn Flakes,” Joanna called back, scrabbling through her drawer for socks, but carefully avoiding the packet of letters that was hidden there.

She was tugging up her bobby socks when the DJ cut in again. “It's eight fifteen . . .” Eight fifteen! Joanna stuffed her feet into her penny loafers, grabbed her radio and hairbrush, and ran to the bathroom.

“There's a banana for your cereal,” Mom said, whisking past the doorway, a blur of green robe.

Yuck! That had to be the same banana that was speckled with black spots yesterday. The spots would only be bigger and blacker today. “I can't eat that,” Joanna called after her mother. “It's rotten. You should throw it away.”

“It is not rotten,” her mother denied. “And we don't throw away perfectly good food in this house.”

Joanna sighed. There was nothing perfect about that banana, but she had a more important battle to win. “Mom, pretty please,” she begged. “Say I can go to Sherry's party—
pleeeeeeease.
”

Joanna heard her mother's sigh from two rooms away. “Must we have this discussion every day? I've already given you my answer.”

Joanna scowled into the mirror. It wasn't fair. Lots of times Mom could be coaxed into changing her mind. But now she was being as stubborn as the rust stains in the sink, which wouldn't budge no matter how hard anyone scrubbed at them.

If only Sam were here. Sam could talk Mom into anything. But Sam was on a ship far, far from home. Maybe heading for Cuba.

“Everything is different now.” Joanna didn't realize she'd said the words out loud until her mother appeared in the doorway buttoning the front of her dress.

“Things are always changing, Joanna,” she said in a soft voice. “It's part of life.” She smiled before taking a step backward to look Joanna up and down. “That skirt fits perfectly. I'll have to thank Sharon again for thinking of you.” Sharon worked with Mom and sometimes gave her clothes that her daughter had outgrown.

Suddenly Mom frowned. “Are you wearing mascara, young lady?”

“Just a
teensy
bit,” Joanna said. “All the girls wear it. It's not against the rules or anything.”

“It's against
my
rules. Now wash it off, please.”

“But you almost didn't even notice!” Joanna protested.

Mom closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I don't have time for this, Joanna. You know I don't want you wearing makeup while you're still in grade school.”

“Fine,” Joanna huffed, snatching up a washcloth to wipe her lashes. “You're so strict—why don't you just send me to Catholic school and be done with it?”

“Maybe because we're not Catholic?” Mom suggested wearily.

Joanna scowled. Then she had a brainstorm. “I won't wear makeup to school ever again,” she bargained, “if you let me go to the party. Cross my heart and hope to
die.
”

“No makeup
and
no party,” Mom said firmly.

“But why?” Joanna wailed. “All the other girls wear makeup.”

“I'm not their mother.”

“Lucky them,” Joanna muttered. The flash of hurt that crossed Mom's face made Joanna's cheeks burn, but she didn't take the words back. Instead, she used the whimper from the next room as an excuse to march out of the room.

Dixie was pacing back and forth at the front door. “Do you want to go for a walk?” Joanna asked. Dixie wagged her tail and yipped. Joanna's anger melted. She laughed, grabbed her jacket from its hook, and snapped on Dixie's leash. Together they trotted down the street.

When they came back, Joanna splashed milk over the bowl of dry cereal Mom had left out for her. When Sam was home, he would sit across from her eating his Wheaties from Mom's medium-sized mixing bowl. He'd be reading a book or a magazine or a newspaper. Sam was always reading something.

Joanna mechanically ate her cereal but her thoughts were troubled. There still hadn't been any news on her regular radio station. Which was good. But maybe she was missing something important. Joanna hesitated. Then she spun the dial recklessly until she heard a serious voice.

“. . . speech last night has the whole world wondering what the Soviets will do next. There has been no reported response from the Kremlin, but navy battleships
are already steaming toward Cuba and observers say the atmosphere surrounding the White House today is extremely sober.”

Joanna's mouth was suddenly dry. She took a quick gulp of milk.

The newsman continued, “Some senators and congressmen have expressed concern that the president's tone may provoke the Soviet Union to even more aggressive behavior. Others support his firm stand on behalf of United States security.

“That's the latest on the situation for now. We'll be updating our reports throughout the day, though, so stay tuned. And in case of emergency, remember to turn your radio to the Civil Defense station, marked by a triangle within a circle on your dial, for instructions.”

Joanna was sorry now that she'd listened. The way that newscaster talked about emergency information sent goose bumps skittering up the back of her neck. Quickly, she spun the dial back to its normal setting, where Nat King Cole was singing “Ramblin' Rose.” His velvety voice wrapped itself around her like a hug. Yes. That was much better.

Joanna was eating the last spoonful of her cereal when Mom swept in to get her lunch bag from the refrigerator. She blew a kiss at Joanna. “Don't forget. I have class tonight, so I'll be home late.”

“Right,” Joanna said.

The front door closed, and Joanna sighed. How come she was grown-up enough to be alone at night, but she was too young to go to a party with a bunch of other kids and parents? Sam got to join the navy. Mom got to go to night school. Everybody got to do what they wanted except Joanna. It wasn't fair!

Joanna's chin went up. She stalked into the bathroom. Two minutes later her eyelashes were darker, longer, and fuller thanks to the magic of mascara. She gave herself a satisfied nod in the mirror. So there!

She grabbed her books and ran out of the house to meet Pamela, who for once was there before her. But the moment Joanna saw the pinched look on Pamela's face, her insides went cold. “Did your parents listen to President Kennedy's speech last night?” Joanna asked.

She hoped desperately that Pamela would say, “What speech?” She hoped the look on Pamela's face had to do with Marie or even a stomachache—anything except the president's speech.

But Pamela bobbed her head bleakly. “We all did. He came on just as Mom was calling us to supper. She was so upset by what he was saying, she forgot to go back and turn off the oven. Supper was ruined. Not that anybody had much of an appetite.”

Joanna drew in a sharp breath. “Your parents think there'll be a war?”

“Mom's afraid there will be. Daddy says even Khrushchev isn't that crazy—but he
looked
worried.” Pamela glanced back at their building. “Mom wanted to keep Marie and me home today, but Daddy wouldn't let her. He told her to get hold of herself and stop frightening us kids.”

Joanna hugged her notebook to her stomach, which had become one big block of ice. “My mom said everything is going to be fine,” she said, hoping that Pamela couldn't hear her teeth chattering.

“My father said the same thing, and he's almost always right,” Pamela said. “But it's scary, y'know?” Her green eyes were troubled. Joanna had a feeling Pamela was wishing she was safe at home with her mother instead of going farther and farther away with every step.

Joanna forced a smile and careless shrug. “By tonight I bet everything'll be back to normal.”

Pamela's head jerked quickly up and down, up and down. “Yeah. You're probably right.”

The playground wasn't nearly as crowded or noisy as usual. Only the youngest kids were playing. The rest were standing around in stiff little bunches. Boys and girls together.

“My father says there's nothing to worry about,” Joanna heard Sherry announce as she and Pamela walked up. “Russia will back down because all commies are cowards.”

Two or three of Sherry's listeners nodded as if their parents had said the same thing. But Theo shook his head. “My dad says the Soviets are crazy fanatics who want to take over the world. There's no telling what they'll do now that they've been challenged.” His eyes were cloudy gray-blue, like Lake Michigan before a storm.