Cold War on Maplewood Street (6 page)

Missed Opportunities

JOANNA WOKE UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING AND TURNED
on her radio. The news didn't start off much better than it had the night before.

“According to Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, as many as twenty-five Russian ships are presently on their way to Cuba despite the quarantine, which goes into effect this morning,” the newscaster reported.

Twenty-five ships! Joanna wanted the newscaster to say how many ships were in the US quarantine, but he didn't. She hoped there were a lot more than twenty-five! Maybe it would say in the newspaper. She'd have to remember to check when she was at the Watermans' later. In the meantime, she listened to how America's delegate to the United Nations delivered a speech the night before
that could have been a direct message to Khrushchev. He warned that Americans were patient but they were not afraid, and they would use their weapons if they had to.

Joanna groaned. Now she was more worried than ever. But it didn't sound as if Sam would be in any danger today, at least. And maybe Khrushchev would back down by tomorrow.

Before Mom left for work, Joanna asked her for an envelope and a stamp.

Mom's face lit up. “You wrote to Sam!”

Joanna nodded, cheeks burning. “How long does it take to get a letter to him?” She followed Mom to her bedroom, where she took an already stamped and addressed envelope from a box on top of her dresser.

Mom gave a tiny shrug. “It's hard to know for certain, but it seems like somewhere between five and seven days.”

“That
long
?” Joanna cried.

“It will go by quickly, you'll see.” Mom kissed Joanna's forehead before returning to the bathroom to finish combing her hair. Joanna looked at the envelope in her hand and sighed. She had wasted so much time.

Pamela was full of her uncle Zach that morning. Uncle Zach said this and Uncle Zach said that. “Uncle Zach told us that he was actually the brother who fell for Mom first, but that Daddy—his dashing older brother—swept her off her feet. Isn't that romantic?”

Joanna grinned. “Is Uncle Zach married?”

Pamela laughed. “No. He says he's still pining away for Mom.” She clapped a hand to her heart dramatically.

Joanna was so interested in Pamela's tales of romance that she nearly walked right past the mailbox on the corner. “Whoa!” she cried, and pulled Sam's letter from her math book to poke it into the slot.

“Is that a letter to Sam?” Pamela asked.

“Yep.”

Pamela frowned. “I thought you promised you wouldn't write to him.”

“I know,” Joanna admitted. “But with all that's going on with Cuba, well, I just have to.” She dropped the letter into the mailbox. Soon the postman would pick it up and it would be on its way to Sam.

Joanna added, “He's part of the quarantine. I just know it. He could be hurt and the last thing I said to him was so awful.” She gulped. “I needed to tell him I didn't mean it. Besides, writing to him is the closest I can come to talking to him. And I really miss talking to him.”

Pamela nodded. She understood.

They stepped into the street and Pamela gestured at the small shop on the opposite corner. The sign out front said
HILLYER'S GROCERIES,
but everyone in the neighborhood just called it the corner store. “Remind me to buy milk on the way home, will you? We ran out at breakfast. Mom used the last of it to make French toast in honor of
Uncle Zach. Did I tell you he climbs mountains for fun? And he's traveled nearly everywhere—even Alaska!” And it was Uncle Zach, Uncle Zach, Uncle Zach the rest of the way to school.

The playground was fuller and noisier than it had been the day before. Almost back to normal. Kids were playing jump rope and tag. Balls were flying back and forth. A cluster of sixth-grade boys were showing off their yo-yo tricks. It was a much nicer start to the day than yesterday's frightened huddles.

When Joanna arrived in her classroom, Carl and Billy were scuffling over a piece of paper. Theo swooped in and snatched it away from both of them just seconds before the bell. The looks of surprise on Carl's and Billy's faces made Joanna laugh. Theo heard and bowed as if to thank her.

Joanna laughed again. She took a step toward him. This might be her chance to start a conversation about his horse, since it didn't look like she would be going to the party. But at that very moment Sherry breezed past her. “Theo!” she cried. “I just heard you have a horse! That's so cool. What's his name?”

Joanna stopped mid-step. Her stomach dipped and she gritted her teeth. If only she'd been faster! Now Sherry was the one Theo was beaming at and telling about his horse, Jasper. It wasn't fair! Sherry couldn't possibly love horses as much as Joanna did. But she would bet anything
it would be Sherry who got to ride Theo's horse now, not her. More important, Sherry would be the one he danced with at the party. She'd be the one he'd be calling his girlfriend next week.

• • •

“Sherry has everything—two parents, great clothes, a summer cottage, boy-girl parties. She even has a
song
named after her! Why couldn't she leave just one thing for me?” Joanna moaned to Pamela on their way home that afternoon.

“Some people have all the luck,” Pamela agreed. “And it's not fair!”

“Mom says life isn't fair, but I don't know why not.” Joanna kicked so hard at a pile of leaves that she lost her balance and nearly fell over.

“Don't give up hope, Joanna. Even if Theo gives Sherry a ride on his horse, that doesn't mean he won't give you a ride, too.”

“That's true,” Joanna said, cheering up a little. “And maybe she doesn't even know how to ride!” She pictured Sherry trying to mount Jasper from the right side instead of the left, and shrieking in fear when the horse started to move. She imagined Theo groaning and wishing he'd never let Sherry anywhere near his horse.

“Oh gosh, I nearly forgot the milk!” Pamela said, veering back toward the corner store they had just passed.

A bell on the door tinkled overhead as they entered.
The candy display case was straight ahead of them and the sight of it made Joanna's mouth water. She wished she had a nickel for a candy bar, or even a penny for some bubble gum. But as usual her pockets were empty. She forgot about candy, though, when she noticed that most of the store's shelves were bare.

“Where did all the food go?” she wondered out loud.

“Everybody's been loading up, what with all the war talk that's going on,” a man's voice answered.

Joanna's attention flew to Mr. Hillyer, the owner, who was standing behind the butcher's counter. “Gosh,” she said. “Mom and I didn't even think about stocking up.” And it was too late now. The shelves had some paper napkins and mustard and catsup, some drinking straws and cake mixes, laundry detergent and cleaning products. That was all.

Mr. Hillyer grinned. “The store getting cleaned out was good for one thing, anyway. It got my wife to take the day off.” He nodded so hard and happily, his white butcher's cap nearly tumbled off his head. He grabbed it with scarred fingers just in time.

“I have the whole place to myself today,” he went on. “No one nagging me to dust the shelves since they're empty, or to scrub the floors and windows since we're so quiet. Nosirree, today it's just me and my radio and my paper.” He gestured at both items on the counter. “Not that they're the most cheerful of company, you understand,
what with all that's going on. Can you believe it? Those crazy Russkies could start a war that blows the whole world to smithereens!”

Joanna gulped. She felt Pamela stiffen beside her. All of a sudden Mr. Hillyer's gloomy expression vanished. He coughed and cleared his throat. Then he smiled extra wide and toothy. “By the way, what was it you two little ladies were after today?”

Pamela looked blank for a moment. Then she stammered, “Uh, m-milk. A gallon of milk.”

His smile somehow stretched even wider. “Well, you're in luck. I just got a delivery from the dairy. Milk is one of the few things I have.” He nodded toward the refrigerator case on the opposite wall.

Pamela went to get one of the glass jugs while Joanna wandered back to the front of the store.

Mr. Hillyer insisted that they both choose something from the penny candy case as a treat. Pamela chose a pretzel rod.

“You pick something now,” Mr. Hillyer prompted Joanna. She chose Bazooka bubble gum. He grinned. “Good choice. It lasts longer than anything else, even the suckers.”

Joanna nodded, popping the pink square into her mouth and stuffing the joke wrapper into her pocket to read later. They were turning to leave when suddenly he said, “Wait, girls. I wonder if you can you do me a favor?”

He lifted a brown bag from behind the counter. “You two live down on Maplewood, don't you?”

They nodded.

He bobbed his head and grinned. “I thought I'd seen you thereabouts when I walk my dog. Anyway, there's an elderly lady, a Mrs. Strenge, who lives—”

“In our building,” Pamela cut in with a grin. “Twelve Thirty-nine North Maplewood.”

“Right!” He beamed. “She called and asked me to deliver some groceries. But with my wife out today, I haven't been able to get away. Do you suppose you could deliver them for me? I'll give you twenty-five cents.”

Pamela had the heavy jug of milk, so it was Joanna he was asking. And he was already taking a quarter from the cash register. She didn't see how she could say no. “Uh, sure,” she said. “Thanks.” She tucked the quarter in her pocket. Then she shifted her books to one arm so she could carry the grocery bag in the other.

“She'll appreciate it if you carry them inside for her,” he called as they were going out the door.

But at their building Joanna declared, “I don't care what Mr. Hillyer said, I'm not going inside that apartment. I'll leave the bag on the mat.”

“The main thing is they're here,” Pamela agreed. “She can take them inside herself.”

Joanna set the bag on the doormat. Then she poked
the doorbell. Pamela ran up to her apartment and Joanna raced downstairs to walk Dixie.

But before the outer door swung all the way closed behind her, she heard Mrs. Strenge's creaky voice calling, “Wait! Come back!”

Uncle Zach

“I NEVER RAN SO FAST IN MY LIFE!” JOANNA TOLD PAMELA
when they were setting the Watermans' dining room table an hour later, after another steamy session with The Book. “I nearly swallowed my bubble gum! And I burst through our door so fast, I scared Dixie!”

Pamela thunked a plate onto the lacy tablecloth. “Well, I don't blame you one bit for being scared! It's creepy the way Mrs. Strenge keeps trying to get you to come close to her.” She shivered. “Ugh!”

Joanna followed Pamela around the table, putting a folded napkin—cloth, not paper—beside each plate. They were eating in the dining room in honor of Uncle Zach. Mrs. Waterman had even bought a bouquet of real flowers for the center of the table—a mix of pink roses, purple
irises, and white baby's breath. She had arranged them in a crystal vase. It was beautiful.

Joanna lined up a plate more evenly with the edge of the table and sniffed the air like Dixie when she smelled bacon cooking. “Ahhh . . . I love your mom's pot roast.”

“Chocolate cake for dessert, too,” Pamela reminded her, as if Joanna was likely to have forgotten. She had seen it cooling on the kitchen table when she arrived.

Joanna was putting extra napkins back in the sideboard when she heard voices and footsteps coming up the stairwell. A few seconds later, Marie entered the apartment, laughing. Her father and uncle were right behind her. “Oh, don't tease. He wasn't that bad,” Marie said between giggles. “He's just a little stiff yet.”

Uncle Zach's slow, one-sided grin reminded Joanna of the Marlboro Man. “The way you flutter those eyelashes of yours at him will loosen him up, I imagine,” he said.

Marie giggled. “Shame on you, Uncle Zach. I'm just being
nice.
”

Her uncle raised his eyebrows. “Is that what you call it? In my day we called it flirting. I guess times have changed, huh, George?”

Mr. Waterman raised his eyebrows right back. “Seems so.”

“Honestly!” Marie shook her head. “You're both impossible!” But she had a smile on her face as she headed to her room.

Pamela waved a handful of forks. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Uncle Zach.”

Mr. Waterman blew her a kiss and waved to Joanna. “Hi, girls.”

Uncle Zach said, “Hi, sunshine. Who's your friend?”

Pamela's face turned pink. “Oops! I'm sorry. Uncle Zach, this is my best friend, Joanna Maxwell. She lives downstairs. Joanna, this is my uncle Zach.”

Uncle Zach smiled broadly and extended his hand. “It's nice to meet you, Joanna Maxwell.”

Joanna flushed. She'd never shaken hands with a man before, but she put her hand into his bigger, warmer one and stammered, “N-nice to meet you, too.”

Mrs. Waterman appeared in the dining room doorway, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Oh, good! You're home. How was rehearsal?”

“Entertaining, right, Zach?” Mr. Waterman said with a laugh.

Uncle Zach grinned. “Extremely.”

Mrs. Waterman opened her mouth as if she was going to ask them to tell her more, but Mr. Waterman was already turning away and heading into the living room. “Find a comfortable chair, Zach,” he told his brother. “I'll tune in the news.”

“Must you?” Mrs. Waterman asked, a pinched look appearing around her eyes.

Mr. Waterman frowned. “Honestly, Gloria, we can't just be ostriches and bury our heads in the sand.” But then he added kindly, “Why don't you go back in the kitchen where you won't hear anything. I promise you we'll turn off the TV right after the news.”

Mrs. Waterman looked at him for a long moment. But in the end she turned and left the room.

“Women,” Mr. Waterman said with a wave of his hand. “They get so worked up.”

Joanna stared at him, surprised and a little disappointed he would say such a thing. She was glad when Uncle Zach said, “I don't know. Seems to me being upset is a pretty reasonable reaction to what's going on.”

Mr. Waterman sighed. “You're right, of course. It's a mess. I just hate to see Gloria so frightened. Her imagination always runs away with her.”

“She's an artist,” Uncle Zach pointed out. “Artists have vivid imaginations.”

“Mom's not an artist anymore,” Pamela chipped in, tossing her last fork in the general direction of a plate and pulling Joanna along with her to the couch. “She hasn't painted in weeks.”

Uncle Zach shook his head at her. “Whether she paints or not, your mother is still an artist,” he said firmly. “She sees and feels things differently than we do. More deeply.”

The television had finally warmed up and an image was taking shape on the screen. Joanna leaned forward, crossing the fingers on both hands. Maybe there would be good news. Not like in the newspaper.

The
Chicago Daily Tribune
had been lying open on Mr. Waterman's chair when Pamela went to the bathroom earlier. The enormous photograph on the top half of the page had grabbed Joanna's attention. It was taken from an airplane looking down on Cuba, and labels pointed out “Missile Launchers” and “Missile Trailers” on the ground below.

Lower on the page it said that the Russians were calling the quarantine a step to war and were readying their troops. A headline on the second page said:

RAID ADVICE:

‘TAKE COVER—

THEN PRAY'

Joanna had dropped the paper back on the chair. She'd seen enough.

Surely the television news would be more hopeful. But when Walter Cronkite's face appeared, he was wearing such a gloomy expression Joanna had to fight an urge to run to the kitchen and hide with Mrs. Waterman. Nothing was better. And the first ship would reach the quarantine the next day.

The news ended and Mrs. Waterman called them to the table.

“Gloria, this is straight from heaven!” Uncle Zach gestured at the table. “The flowers, the food—I haven't seen or smelled anything so wonderful in years.”

Mrs. Waterman blushed. “Thank you, Zach.”

For a while everyone was silent as they enjoyed the delicious pot roast and roasted carrots and potatoes. But after a few minutes, people started talking between bites, and midway through the meal Marie asked, “Where will you live in Paris, Uncle Zach?”

“I'll stay in a hotel until I find an apartment,” Uncle Zach replied. “I know what I want, though: something not far from the Seine and the Louvre—with a bakery just around the corner and a marvelous restaurant just up the street.”

His brother laughed. “Those are your only qualifications, hmm?” He looked at Mrs. Waterman. “Can't you just see him scouring Paris for the next six months in search of this dream apartment, Gloria?”

Mrs. Waterman's smile spread upward until it reached her eyes. “Yes, I can see him,” she said. “And I can see the apartment, too. It will have tall ceilings and narrow windows, and a balcony that overlooks a sidewalk cafe. And one of the other tenants will play the violin very softly late at night.” She shook her finger at Uncle Zach. “Don't you dare give up looking until you find it.”

His eyes were fixed on her face, which was glowing the way it always did when she talked about Paris. “I won't,” he said solemnly. “I promise.”

Mr. Waterman groaned. “Honestly, Gloria, you're worse than he is. Don't encourage him! He'll be living in a hotel forever.”

“No, he won't,” Mrs. Waterman said. “Wait and see.” Then she went to the kitchen to bring out dessert.

“Ah, my favorite!” Mr. Waterman cried when he saw what she brought back. “Chocolate cake like you've never tasted before, Zach. Give him a big piece, darling. Let him see that all the good bakers aren't in France.”

Mrs. Waterman laughed and cut a fat slice for Uncle Zach. When he tasted it, he closed his eyes and sighed. “A dessert worthy of the gods.”

“Be thankful Mom isn't painting anymore,” Pamela teased. “If she were, it would be a bakery cake instead of homemade—
if
she remembered to go to the bakery.”

Everyone laughed, Mrs. Waterman hardest of all. “I lose all track of time,” she confessed.

“Artists can't punch a time clock,” Uncle Zach defended her.

Marie shrugged. “Well, we like her better this way—a normal mother who remembers to cook supper and has time to make great desserts—right?” She looked across the table at her sister.

Pamela nodded, her mouth too full of cake to speak.

Mrs. Waterman murmured, “I forgot the coffee,” and went back to the kitchen.

She returned and was filling coffee cups when Marie cleared her throat. “You know, I've been thinking, Mom. The sunroom would make a great bedroom.”

Mrs. Waterman looked as startled as Joanna felt. “You want my studio?”

“Well, you're not using it anymore, so why shouldn't I have it?” Marie turned to her father. “Don't you think that's fair, Daddy? After all, the room's just going to waste.”

His eyebrows knotted together. “I'd hardly say the room is being wasted, Marie. Your mother is just taking some time off . . .”

Marie thrust out her lower lip. “It's been months! And all that time I could've had a room of my own instead of being crammed in with an adolescent who doesn't respect my privacy or belongings.” She glared at Pamela.

“I haven't touched anything of yours in ages!” Pamela cried. She was so indignant, Joanna was sure she'd forgotten about The Book.

Joanna expected Mr. Waterman to tell Marie to hush, but instead he looked at Mrs. Waterman. Did he think Marie was right? Joanna looked at Mrs. Waterman, too. She waited for her to tell Marie to stop being a brat. But Mrs. Waterman didn't say a word. She just stood abruptly and started stacking dirty dishes.

“Gloria, you haven't finished your cake,” Mr. Waterman protested.

“I'm too full to eat another bite right now,” she said brightly. “I'll have it later.” She took the plates to the kitchen. A scowl flashed across Uncle Zach's face but Joanna didn't know who he was angry with—Marie for making trouble, Mr. Waterman for not putting a stop to it, or even Mrs. Waterman for just walking away without telling Marie not to be silly, of course she couldn't have the sunroom.

The last bites of Joanna's cake stuck in her throat. Marie had ruined the end of a terrific dinner. “Thanks a lot!” Joanna wanted to tell her. Instead, she grabbed her own plate and followed Mrs. Waterman to the kitchen. She got there just in time to see Mrs. Waterman fling her slice of cake into the garbage, and—before she turned quickly away—to see the tears shining on her cheeks.