Cold War on Maplewood Street (4 page)

Joanna's heart quivered. Theo was afraid, too.

The first bell rang. Joanna fought down a sudden urge to run home and snuggle under her covers with Dixie. Instead, she swallowed hard and plodded inside with everyone else.

That morning there wasn't any horsing around in the cloakroom. Jackets were hung and kids went to their desks with hardly any detours along the way. When Mr. Egan entered the room, for the first time ever he didn't have to call for quiet. It was already so hushed, Joanna heard the click of the minute hand when it moved to the straight-up position. Nine o'clock. The final bell rang.

Mr. Egan set his briefcase on his desk. “Good morning, class.” Joanna stared at him along with her classmates. Mr. Egan might have white-speckled shoulders and wear thick glasses and ugly ties, but he was their teacher. He was supposed to have all the answers. Did
he
think there would be a war?

“I understand what a confusing time this must be for you,” he said. “And I promise you we'll talk about it. But first, let's say the Pledge of Allegiance.”

Joanna stood with everyone else and rested her right hand over her heart. She looked at the flag hanging from the wall at the front of the room. She hardly ever noticed it except when she was saying the pledge. Now she thought of the wars that had been fought to keep it flying. Was there about to be another one? And if there was, who would win?

After the pledge, Mr. Egan took attendance. Twelve students were absent. Over one-third of the class. Finally, Mr. Egan closed his black attendance book and said, “Let's begin at the beginning.”

He pointed out Cuba on the pull-down map at the front of the room and showed them how close the island was to Florida. Only ninety miles away! Then he explained how Cuba's leader, Fidel Castro, a communist friendly with the Russians, had been getting weapons from them—weapons that were supposed to be for self-defense only.

“But President Kennedy has evidence that they've been setting up missile bases,” Mr. Egan said. “Bases that will be capable of launching nuclear missiles at the United States. President Kennedy has insisted they be removed. And he's sending American ships to quarantine Cuba—to prevent Russian ships from bringing in any more missiles.”

Mr. Egan walked to the front of his desk. He tugged on his tie, which was an uglier than usual brown and gold plaid. “I don't believe this situation will end in war,” he said, “but right now nothing is certain. All we can do is hope and pray all will be well.”

Sherry raised her hand and proudly announced that her father had been in World War II and the Korean War. “He says there's nothing to worry about. American GIs can whip any army, Russians included.”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the class.

Joanna's hand shot up. “My brother, Sam, is in the navy, on a destroyer in the Atlantic. He could be part of the quarantine.”

Kids turned and looked at Joanna with expressions of surprise, concern, and respect. Joanna blushed and lowered her eyes. She hadn't wanted attention for herself. She just wanted people to know that Sam might be in danger. As if the more people who knew, the safer he would be. Which was stupid. It wouldn't make a difference. She slid down in her seat and blushed hotter, glad when everyone turned back toward Mr. Egan.

“I'm sure your family is very concerned about Sam's safety,” Mr. Egan said. “But I'm also sure you're very proud of him.”

Joanna chewed on her lower lip. Was she proud of Sam? She had so many Sam-feelings swirling around inside, they were hard to separate from one another. She was angry at him, she knew that for sure. And she loved him. Mad as she was, she still knew that for sure, too. But proud? She was too full of fear for him to tell. She just wished he was home and safe.

A boy with a blue office pass scurried into the
classroom with a note. Mr. Egan read it and the boy hurried off. Mr. Egan cleared his throat. “That was a message from Principal Owens. There will be an air-raid drill at nine forty-five. It's just a drill—a practice. There's no reason to be alarmed.”

Desks creaked as kids twisted around to look at one another. Joanna saw the fear that she was feeling reflected on each of their faces. She wished she had stayed home.

When the bell rang to begin the drill, Joanna was the second one to the front of the room. She followed Debbie Rickers into the hallway. They sat on the cold floor, facing the wall and hunched forward, covering their heads with their hands—duck and cover, it was called.

Joanna didn't realize Theo was on her other side until he jostled her with his elbow. “Sorry,” he whispered.

He was so close she could hear each of his breaths—in and out, in and out. But then she heard something that made her forget about even the nearness of Theo.

Somewhere down the hall a kid was crying. That in itself was pretty bad. But even worse was the fact that no one—not even Billy Hammersley—laughed or even snickered.

In that moment, the truth struck Joanna like a lightning bolt that lit up everything and jolted her from head to toe—the “whole truth,” like they said on
Perry Mason,
“and nothing but the truth.” Mr. Egan had said they should pray. That alone should have told her how bad
things were—a teacher in public school talking about praying! But now she understood why.

If the Russians attacked the United States, it would almost certainly be with nuclear weapons. Nuclear bombs wouldn't just destroy a few buildings, the way regular bombs did in war movies. They'd destroy whole cities.

She and Sam had watched an episode of
The Twentieth Century
about how during World War II, the United States gathered a bunch of scientists together to create the first atom bomb so they could end the war. The program even showed the bomb being dropped on a Japanese city. When it exploded, it sent up a giant mushroom-shaped cloud of radiation that spread for miles and miles. It killed thousands and thousands of people and made many of the rest of them sick for a long time afterward.

If the Russians dropped nuclear bombs on cities in the United States, some lucky people who had bomb shelters might be okay. But what about the rest of them?

Joanna shivered. Her stomach cramped. She looked around and didn't know whether to laugh or cry, because if the Russians attacked Chicago, all the ducking and covering in the world wouldn't help.

Not one tiny bit.

The Watermans

JOANNA TROTTED UP THE CONCRETE STAIRS TO THE MAIN
entrance of her building. But when she reached the top, her movements suddenly became stealthy. As quietly as any burglar, she eased the outer door open and closed.

The stairway to the second- and third-floor apartments was on her left. The door to Mrs. Strenge's apartment was on her right. Joanna tiptoed to the left, but all the while she
looked
to the right. She held her breath and listened for any sound that might signal the apartment door was about to open. If it did, Joanna was prepared to run.

But Mrs. Strenge's apartment was silent. So silent that for one little part of a second Joanna was tempted to flip over the newspaper on the old woman's doormat to see if the headline said anything about Cuba. She quickly
thought better of it and fled up the stairs, past the Nowickis' apartment on the second floor and up to the third.

Joanna expected Pamela to answer her knock, so she was surprised when Mrs. Waterman opened the door.

Joanna thought Mrs. Waterman was beautiful even when she was wearing one of Mr. Waterman's old shirts over her clothes, and her hair was in a long out-of-the-way braid—which was how she looked when she painted. But she was extra beautiful today. Her red-gold hair was swept up into a fashionable French twist, and she was wearing a pretty green dress.

Mrs. Waterman was an honest-to-goodness artist. Her studio was the sunroom that opened off the living room, and her framed paintings hung on nearly every wall of the apartment. Lately, though, she seemed to be taking a vacation from painting. Her easel had been holding the same half-finished painting of a woman for weeks now. And instead of the apartment smelling faintly of turpentine and paint, as it always used to, today it smelled deliciously of bread baking. Joanna's stomach growled loudly. She'd been so eager to see Pamela's surprise, she hadn't taken the time to eat a snack. She'd just walked Dixie quickly and dashed upstairs.

Mrs. Waterman smiled. “I sent Pamela to the corner to mail a birthday card for me,” she said. “Come have a slice of bread while you wait for her, and I'll tell you some
exciting news.” She led the way down the hallway to the kitchen, her high heels tapping against the linoleum.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Waterman cut into a golden loaf of bread, but her eyes never left Joanna. They were green, like Pamela's, and just then they were glowing. “Pamela's uncle Zachary has been transferred from his job in St. Louis,” she announced.

“That's nice,” Joanna said, though she didn't see what was so exciting about that.

Mrs. Waterman shook her head as if she heard what Joanna was thinking. “I haven't told you where he's been transferred
to,
Joanna. To
Paris
! Can you imagine? Paris,
France
!”

Joanna's mouth fell open. Paris was where Mrs. Waterman would have gone to study painting if she hadn't married Mr. Waterman. She had books about Paris in her studio and it looked like an amazing place. “Golly!” Joanna breathed.

Mrs. Waterman laughed and handed her a slice of warm bread. “Golly, indeed! He flies to Paris on Friday, but he's coming to Chicago today to spend a few days with us first.”

The front door slammed. Pamela hurried in. She must have run both ways. Her cheeks were pink and she was panting like Dixie did after a good workout. She grabbed Joanna's arm. “C'mon.”

Mrs. Waterman protested, “Don't you want some fresh bread and milk first?”

Pamela shook her head. “Maybe later.” She turned to start down the hall.

“Did you get your math test back?”

Pamela turned back with a loud sigh. “No. And I did my homework at school. Now can I please
go
?”

Joanna squirmed. If she spoke to her mother that way, she'd be sent to her room—and she'd be expected to apologize when she came out. But Mrs. Waterman wasn't as strict as Joanna's mom. She raised both hands in defeat. “Go.”

Pamela dragged Joanna down the hall to the room she shared with Marie and closed the door. She put a finger to her lips, but behind her finger she was grinning wickedly. She opened the closet door and reached into the pocket of Marie's fluffy white robe. “Look at this!” she said, pulling out a paperback book. Not Marie's diary. Something even better.

Joanna sucked in a breath at the sight of the familiar cover. “Oh my gosh!”

She and Pamela had heard eighth-grade girls whispering about this book at recess and knew it was about love and romance and even s-e-x. They'd been desperate to read it, but they'd been too scared to buy it at the drugstore, where old Mrs. Schuman might report back to their mothers. Now, though, thanks to Marie, they had it
anyway. Joanna let out an excited squeal and dived onto the floor next to Pamela in the valley between her bed and Marie's.

They read the first few pages and stopped to frown at each another.

“I don't see why everybody's so excited about it,” Pamela complained. “It's boring so far.”

Joanna nodded her agreement, licking the last crumbs of bread from her fingers. She flipped forward a few pages and read a few lines. Nothing exciting there, either. Then she noticed something.

“Hey, look,” she said. “Some of the pages have bent corners. Let's see what's on them!”

Quickly they turned to the first page with a folded corner. A minute later they looked at each other wide-eyed and whispered, “Oh my gosh! Do you believe this?”

They were still huddled there, several folded pages later, when they heard the front door close. “Marie!” Pamela gasped. She slapped the book shut and leaped over her bed to stuff it back into its hiding place. Joanna sprang up from the floor and plopped on top of the bed. Pamela closed the closet door and dropped down beside her just seconds before Marie entered the room.

“Oh, hi, Marie,” Pamela said. Her voice tried hard to sound casual and innocent. “I didn't know you were home.” She smiled brightly.
Too
brightly.

Joanna winced. Pamela sure didn't have any of Marie's
acting ability. Marie had narrowed her eyes and was scanning the room. She probably thought they'd been messing with her makeup again. Joanna fought an urge to look at the closet. Had Pamela closed the door all the way?

Then Joanna had a brainstorm. “How's the new play going?” she asked.

Marie underwent an immediate transformation. She tipped her head graciously at Joanna. She was no longer Marie the Big Sister, she was Marie the Actress. “Pretty well,” she said. “Romeo needs help memorizing his lines, so we're going to have some extra practices together.” By the satisfied look on Marie's face, Joanna guessed that spending time with Romeo wouldn't be exactly painful.

Pamela made a show of looking at the clock on the bedside table. “Uh-oh. I promised Mom I'd set the table,” she said. She got up and slipped past Marie.

“See ya, Marie,” Joanna said, scooting after Pamela. She closed the door behind her before she whispered, “Whew—that was close!”

Pamela hugged herself and twirled around. “Isn't that book
some
thing?”

Mr. Waterman came out of the kitchen before Joanna could answer. He nearly always drove Marie home after her rehearsals because he was a history teacher at her high school. “Hi, sweetie.” He kissed Pamela's cheek. “Hello, Joanna. What've you two been up to?”

Joanna looked at Pamela. They both burst into guilty
giggles. Mr. Waterman shook his head. “I should know better than to ask, I suppose.” He settled into his big stuffed chair. “School okay today?” he asked Pamela.

She perched on the arm of the chair. “A little strange, but okay.” She smoothed a pleat on her skirt. “We had an air-raid drill . . .” Her voice trailed off. Mr. Waterman opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but Pamela quickly added, “When's Uncle Zach going to get here?”

Mr. Waterman glanced at his wristwatch. “Any time now, I should think.” He half closed one eye and frowned in thought. “It's been four, no, five years since I last saw him. At Grandpa Huey's funeral. He's been too busy building his career to take time off even to visit his family.”

Joanna was curious. “What does he do exactly?”

“He's a newspaper reporter. And I guess all his hard work has paid off, because he just got a job as a foreign correspondent. He'll be covering stories all over Europe.”

“Wow!” said Joanna. “That sounds exciting.” Maybe she'd be a reporter someday.

Mr. Waterman shook open his paper. Joanna edged toward the door and Pamela followed. “I should probably go home now,” Joanna said.

Pamela sighed, but nodded. Then she whispered, “We'll read more tomorrow.”

Joanna grinned and started down the stairs. Her head was full of the astonishing things she'd read. The creak
of a door opening below only half registered. Luckily, just as she was about to step into the first-floor entryway, she heard a moan that stopped her in her tracks. A misshapen hand grabbed the newspaper from the mat. Then it disappeared inside the first-floor apartment and the door banged shut. A nasty odor filled the hallway. Yuck! It smelled like peppermint mixed with stinky cheese and cabbage—only worse.

Joanna held her breath and flew through the outside door as if she were jet-propelled. A yellow taxi drove up as she dashed down the stairs. Safe on the sidewalk, she paused to watch a man get out—a tall man with blond hair spilling onto his forehead. It had to be Uncle Zach, although he sure didn't look like any of Joanna's uncles, who were either plump or bald or both. He looked more like Troy Donahue, the movie star.

Joanna suddenly realized she was staring, so she hurried the rest of the way to the basement. But she couldn't help thinking again that Pamela had the best luck of anyone she knew, even when it came to uncles.