Cold War on Maplewood Street

ALSO BY GAYLE ROSENGREN

What the Moon Said

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

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Copyright © 2015 by Gayle Rosengren.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Rosengren, Gayle.

Cold War on Maplewood Street / Gayle Rosengren.

pages cm

Summary: A young girl growing up in Chicago watches the events of the Cuban Missile Crisis unfold while struggling to repair a damaged relationship with her brother, stationed in the Gulf.

1. Cuban Missile Crisis, 1962—Juvenile fiction. [1. Cuban Missile Crisis, 1962—Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.R719268Co 2015 [Fic]—dc23 2014015541

ISBN 978-0-698-17124-4.

To Pete, forever alive in my heart, and Don, who brought the laughter back

A Scary Phone Call

October 22, 1962

JOANNA WAS SINGING ALONG WITH ELVIS PRESLEY AND
dancing her empty cereal bowl across the kitchen when the telephone rang. Startled, she dropped the bowl. Luckily she had just reached the sink. Even luckier, the bowl didn't shatter when it struck the porcelain with a loud clunk.

Still, Joanna frowned and her heart continued beating faster than usual. Hardly anyone ever called so early. Except for when it was bad news, like when Grandma called to tell them Grandpa was in the hospital.

Joanna turned down the volume on the radio Sam had
sent her and lifted the receiver from the phone on the wall. “Hello?” she said.

No one answered.

“Hello?” She heard a quick breath and then a click as the caller hung up.

Joanna slammed the receiver onto its hook and backed away. She hated hang-ups. Mom would say it was just a wrong number, but Joanna had read in one of her mystery books that burglars sometimes call ahead to make sure no one is home before they break in. Hang-ups made her think there was someone who
wanted
to break in. And that made her think about how easy that would be. They lived in a basement apartment after all. A burglar could just kneel down, smash a window, and climb in easy as pie. Joanna shivered, glad it was time to leave for school.

She patted the small white dog at her feet. “Don't worry, Dixie. I answered the phone, so no burglars are going to come. You're safe.” Dixie looked up with trusting eyes and wagged her crooked tail. She didn't look a bit worried.

Joanna threw on her jacket, scooped up her books, and hurried out of the apartment. She tested the door to make sure it was locked. Then she bounded up the concrete steps to the sidewalk where Pamela Waterman should have been waiting for her but wasn't. Joanna sighed.

Pamela lived on the third floor of their apartment building and they'd been best friends since before kindergarten.
Pamela was good at keeping secrets and loved dogs and horses and mystery books as much as Joanna did. But Pamela wasn't always good at being on time.

Waiting for Pamela never used to bother Joanna. She'd imagine herself on a horse, racing across open fields, sailing over fences. Or she'd try to solve the mystery in whichever book she was reading. And if it was cold or rainy, she'd just climb the front steps, push open the door, and wait inside the hallway, where it was warm and dry. But that was before their new first-floor neighbor moved in.

When the girls first saw the label on the mailbox, they'd thought it said “Strange 1.” Pamela had giggled. A closer look revealed that the name was spelled “S-t-r-
e
-n-g-e,” but Joanna couldn't laugh along with Pamela at their mistake.

“She really
is
strange,” Joanna had insisted. “You didn't see the little blond girl come running out of her apartment crying. I did. She went up to the door with a carton of Girl Scout Cookies while I was walking Dixie. And a couple minutes later she came running out so fast, she even left her cookies behind!”

“What could Mrs. Strenge have done?” Pamela had scoffed. “She's ancient.”

Joanna had to admit that the old woman didn't look strong enough to hurt a fly. But she knew what she'd seen. And she knew there was something evil about Mrs. Strenge. It wasn't just that she had witchy wild white hair
and a nearly all-black cat. It was the way the old woman stared at her sometimes when Joanna was outside. Ugh! It gave her the creeps.

Joanna risked a quick sideways glance up at the window. The curtains were closed. Her shoulders sagged in relief.

At the same moment, the front door swung open and Pamela appeared. “Sorry.” She galloped down the steps. “I started to call you to tell you I was going to be late, but then Marie finally came out of the bathroom, so I just hung up and ran for it.”

“Oh! That was
you
! I thought—” But Joanna changed what she was about to say. “I wondered who was calling so early.”

No need to tell Pamela she'd been scared it was a burglar. Instead, Joanna listened to Pamela explain how Marie had hogged the bathroom so long that Pamela had only five minutes to get ready.

Joanna made a sympathetic noise. Marie was gorgeous, the star of every play at the high school, but she wasn't a very nice big sister. Not like Sam, who'd always been a terrific big brother.

Joanna's throat tightened. If only Sam hadn't joined the navy. If only he had stayed home with Joanna and Mom. A while back he'd given Joanna his Duncan—the best yo-yo there was—and taught her to do tricks like
Walk the Dog and Rock the Baby and Around the World. But Joanna only went Around the World with her yo-yo; Sam was doing it for real.

Thinking of him made her eyes sting. Joanna blinked hard and forced her attention back to Pamela. “Marie can be a brat, that's for sure,” she said. “But your mom and dad are great.”

Pamela shrugged. “They're okay, I guess.”

Mr. and Mrs. Waterman were a lot better than “okay,” but Joanna didn't argue. Pamela didn't realize how lucky she was to have a fun mom who was home all the time, and a nice dad, too.

Mr. Waterman was a responsible man. Joanna's dad—as Mom said often enough—was
not.
He'd left their family when Joanna was only four. She barely remembered what he looked like. And since he was always behind on the child support money he was supposed to send, Mom had to work a lot. And when she wasn't working, she was usually tired, or worried about money, or both. If only Joanna's father were responsible, like Mr. Waterman, their lives would be very different.

Van Buren Elementary School was only two blocks away, so it wasn't long before they heard shouts and laughter from kids playing tag and jumping rope and climbing on the jungle gym. But playing was for little kids.

The older girls—girls in sixth grade and up—formed
little huddles. They talked and giggled and whispered about movie stars and the boys in their class and sometimes—when they could get their hands on a copy—the stories in
True Romance
magazine.

The girls in Joanna's class usually huddled around Sherry Bellano.

It wasn't just because Sherry was pretty that the other girls circled her like planets around a sun. It was the knack she had of always knowing what was “in” before anyone else. For example, that day Sherry's pink-polished fingernails were all an inch long! Joanna's mouth fell open. The other girls gasped, and Debbie Rickers stopped chomping on her bubble gum long enough to ask, “How'd you grow them so
fast
?”

“I bought them at Woolworths,” Sherry said with a giggle. “They're made out of plastic. You just glue 'em on.” She fluttered her fingers in the air like pink butterflies.

They looked so cool, Joanna knew that in a day or two half of the other girls would be wearing fake nails, too. So would she, if she had the money to buy them.

The bell rang and everyone swarmed into the building. Hundreds of feet pounded up the stairs. On the third floor, Joanna said good-bye to Pamela outside of Miss Zolanski's classroom. Here was another example of Pamela's luck.

Miss Zolanski was young and pretty, wore her hair like First Lady Jackie Kennedy, and didn't believe in
homework. Joanna's teacher, Mr. Egan, was old and dandruffy, wore ugly ties, and believed the more homework the better. The only good thing about being in Mr. Egan's class was Theo Jaegerson.

Joanna had liked Theo from the day he appeared as a new boy in her class last spring. Theo had wavy blond hair and Lake Michigan–blue eyes. He was smart, and he was nice. She'd thought he couldn't be more perfect. And then she overheard him talking about riding his horse in Lincoln Park. His very own horse! From then on, Joanna dreamed of Theo inviting her to go riding with him.

The problem was Theo sat on the other side of the classroom this year. And when they weren't at their desks, he was always surrounded by other boys. So they hardly ever had a chance to talk to each other. That was why Joanna was desperate to go to the party that Sherry was having on Saturday night—the first boy-girl party in their class.

At a party, it would be easy for Joanna to “accidentally” find herself beside Theo and say, “Hi. Nice party, huh? Say, someone said you have a horse. Do you really?” Then she could tell him about the pretty black mare she'd ridden when Sam took her riding on her birthday. And maybe Theo'd ask her to dance.
Maybe
they'd become boyfriend and girlfriend!

Of course, if Mom had her way, there'd be no party for Joanna. Mom thought twelve was too young to go to
a party with boys, at night. But there were five days yet 'til the party. Joanna was certain she could change her mother's mind in that amount of time.

Joanna entered her classroom and went to hang up her jacket. Her steps quickened when she saw Theo ahead, just outside of the cloakroom. He had a fistful of red licorice whips and he was dealing them out like playing cards to Billy, Steven, Richard—and
Joanna
!

“Th-thanks,” she stammered.

Theo grinned. She loved the fact that he had just one dimple, in his right cheek. Somehow it was even cuter than if he'd had two.

The rest of Joanna's day passed in a happy red licorice glow that even a surprise quiz on decimals couldn't dim.

“So maybe he likes me, too,” Joanna confided to Pamela on their way home that afternoon, orange and gold leaves raining down on their heads with each gust of wind.

“You've just
got
to go to Sherry's party now!” Pamela said.

“I'll talk Mom into it somehow,” Joanna vowed.

At their apartment building, Pamela made a face. “I have to go to the dentist today.” Then she added, “But you're gonna die tomorrow when you see what I found hidden in the pocket of Marie's robe this morning.”

“What?” Joanna begged. “Tell me!”

Pamela made a zipping motion over her lips and skipped up the stairs to the building's entrance.

“You're mean!” Joanna called. But she laughed as she trotted downstairs to the basement. Maybe Pamela had found Marie's diary again!

The house key hung on a chain around Joanna's neck. As she fished it from under her blouse, Dixie started to whimper on the other side of the door. “Calm down,” she called. “I'm coming.” But despite the whimpers, Joanna took an extra moment to check the mailbox that hung on the brick wall next to the door.

Probably there wouldn't be another letter from Sam yet. But there
could
be. She reached inside. Her fingers brushed metal and air, but no mail. Not even a bill. She let the lid bang shut.

Joanna's disappointment couldn't last long, though. Not when Dixie was so happy to see her when she opened the door. The little dog yelped and danced and wagged around Joanna's ankles.

“You're the best, the sweetest, most wonderful dog in the world,” Joanna crooned as she hugged her dog. Dixie wiggled and whimpered that she loved Joanna, too.

Joanna snapped on Dixie's leash and took her for a walk. She laughed when Dixie chased and pounced on blowing leaves as if they were wild things and she was a fierce huntress. And she and Dixie both stopped to sniff at the air when the tangy smell of burning leaves wafted to them on a breeze. Jack-o'-lanterns leered at them from porch rails and steps. And always somewhere in the
background was the strumming of a rake across a lawn. Autumn was everywhere.

They ran most of the way home. Dixie's paws flew across the sidewalk, her tiny toenails making scratching noises on the concrete. She ran so fast that Joanna couldn't keep up and finally had to slow back down to a walk a few houses from their building to catch her breath and ease the stitch in her side. Dixie could have kept going and going.

Just before she started down the steps to their apartment, a crawly feeling on the back of her neck made Joanna look up. Mrs. Strenge stood at the window. Her beady eyes stared from a scrawny face surrounded by hair sticking out in all directions, like the Bride of Frankenstein. Her fat black cat glowered down from the windowsill beside her.

Joanna's heart gave a lurch and thudded in her ears as she stared back at Mrs. Strenge, unable to look away. Until the old woman raised a bony hand and gestured,
come.

Just like Dracula! He hypnotized his victims with his stare, and then he reached out his hand and called to them in his spooky Transylvania voice,
“Come to me . . .”

But he was make-believe and Mrs. Strenge was
real.

Joanna tore her eyes from the window and listened at last to what her brain was screaming. She ran.