Dead End in Norvelt (18 page)

“Your Grim Reaper friend, Mrs. Dubicki,” she revealed, still sounding all bubbly. “You predicted it and my spotter confirmed it this time. Said he ‘touched’ her and she was stone cold. They already have her down at the Huffer Funeral Parlor, so if she isn’t dead they’ll finish her off.”

“I guess we have to do her obit,” I suggested, and headed into the living room to take my place at the desk.

“And I have good history for today too,” she said with enthusiasm. “But first we’ll start with her personal stuff.”

I picked up my pencil and wrote as she paced back and forth and spoke wildly off the top of her head while her arms sliced through the air like karate chops.

“Mrs. Rena Dubicki, who died today at age eighty-six, was born in Slovenia in 1876. During a deadly wheat famine her farming parents decided to immigrate to America. They took their savings and purchased the cheapest tickets they could on an ocean liner and gathered up what little food they could for the long journey. Their tiny room was in the dank bottom of the boat and it took weeks to travel down the Adriatic Sea and around the boot of Italy and across the Mediterranean Sea and through the Strait of Gibraltar and across the Atlantic Ocean.

“Partway through the trip they ran out of food and were living on handouts and kitchen scraps and were barely half-alive by the time the boat pulled into New York City. They were thrilled with having made their way to a new country and cried tears of joy as they passed the Statue of Liberty. But they were also crying from a terrible tragedy. Somehow, along the way, they lost their daughter. Mrs. Dubicki was six years old and tiny and her parents had not seen her in days. They were afraid to tell anyone that she vanished for fear they would be arrested and sent back to Slovenia to starve. Mrs. Dubicki was a sleepwalker and her parents worried she had wretchedly stepped overboard one night and been eaten by sharks or swallowed by a whale. After a final futile search for her they had to disembark along with the rest of the passengers. The boat took on cargo and turned right around and went back to Slovenia. Her parents were heartbroken. Where could their daughter be, they asked, without an answer. But they did not give up hope.

“Well, about the time the ship pulled back into the Slovenian port, the fattened-up Mrs. Dubicki slipped out of her hiding place within the captain’s private kitchen pantry. Weeks before she sneaked in and hid while the door was open, but got trapped when the door was locked. She had been feasting on the captain’s good food, and when she made her way onto the deck to locate her parents she declared to a sailor that Slovenia and New York looked exactly the same. It was soon discovered that she was a lost girl who had failed to get off in New York, so she was assigned to a host family, and when the boat turned around and headed back to New York she remained on board. At immigration her parents were tracked down and she was reunited and this is how Mrs. Dubicki came twice to America—and as she liked to say, ‘Twice was enough so I never left again.’

“She married Taduz Dubicki and together they had seven children and five grandchildren. Mr. Dubicki was a coal miner in Calumet and passed away from black lung disease. The children who lived with them after they moved to Norvelt have all moved away, but Mrs. Dubicki stayed in her Norvelt home. In recent times she had been ill with a muscular disease which gave her the shakes, cramping convulsions, and uncontrollable spasms that led to her death from cardiac arrest the day following her grandson’s birthday on July 3.

“She was a member of the Roosevelt Food Bank for the needy, a devout Methodist, a Girl Scout den mother, and a cook for the volunteer fire department. She will be missed by all who knew her. She will be cremated at the Huffer Funeral Parlor on July 5, and soon a burial ceremony will take place at St. George’s Cemetery.”

I wrote all that down. “Is there more?” I asked, because I was a little tired of Mrs. Dubicki.

“Yes,” Miss Volker replied, “but that is enough about her. We’ve got other things to think about because dying on July 4 really brings up some interesting history which we have to get into the newspaper. So write this down, but I’ll keep it short.”

I quickly sharpened my pencil, cracked my knuckles, yawned, stretched my arms, and was ready.

“Amazingly,” Miss Volker began with her usual physical enthusiasm, “John Adams (our second president) and Thomas Jefferson (our third) died on exactly the same Fourth of July day in 1826, which was the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. When Adams died his last words were, ‘Jefferson survives.’ But Jefferson had already died two hours before and his last words were, ‘Adams survives.’ Their fight for freedom turned them into blood brothers. Both presidents were great patriots and signers of the Declaration of Independence, and it is a majestic coincidence that they would both die on the day all Americans celebrate as the birth of this country. At times the two men were bitter political enemies—especially over the issue of slave ownership—but as they aged they grew into great friends, for it is the American way not to focus on differences, but on what we have in common: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

The moment she paused to catch her breath, I raised my hand like I did in school. “Excuse me, Miss Volker,” I called out.

“What?” she snapped. “I’m speaking.”

“Is it really true what you said about Adams and Jefferson having almost the same last words at almost the same time?”

She exhaled and looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Most all of what I say is true,” she replied. “But if you don’t know your history you won’t know the difference between the truth and wishful thinking.”

“Well, which is this? Truth or wishful thinking?” I dared to ask.

“Look it up for yourself,” she said impatiently, and turned her back on me. “Now, let’s continue the obit, shall we?”

“Okay,” I said quickly, and lifted my pencil.

“Mrs. Roosevelt,” she said loudly, “was especially fond of a Jeffersonian principle that shaped the planning of Norvelt. Jefferson believed that every American should have a house on a large enough piece of fertile property so that during hard times, when money was difficult to come by, a man and woman could always grow crops and have enough food to feed their family. Jefferson believed that the farmer was the key to America and that a well-run family farm was a model for a well-run government. Mrs. Roosevelt felt the same. And we in Norvelt keep that belief alive.”

After speaking her last word Miss Volker bowed her head in prayer. When she finished she plopped down onto her couch like a string puppet that had been cut loose. All her jumbled pieces slumped into herself, and with her forehead pressed against her tucked-up knees she fell into a deep sleep.

But I still had work to do. I typed up the obituary and history lesson then went over to the map and put a final red pin on Mrs. Dubicki’s house at C-27. “Sorry, Mrs. Dubicki,” I whispered. “You were very nice and I hope the real Grim Reaper was kind to you.”

Just then Miss Volker lifted her head from her knees and peeked up at me as she yawned loudly.

“Anything I can get you before I take off?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “I want you to take a sleeve of Thin Mints and line them up on the edge of the kitchen counter and then when I’m hungry I can just bend over and sweep a cookie into my mouth like I’m scoring a goal in hockey.”

“What about milk?” I asked.

“Just put a straw in a bottle and leave it on the counter. That will make a nice dinner.”

“Sure,” I said, and after I got her set up I ran down to the newspaper office where Mr. Greene was smoking his pipe. A cloud of smoke hung over his head like a cartoon thought bubble full of swirling, unformed thoughts. I gave him the obituary, and after he read it he lowered the pages and smiled at me.

“Nice job,” he declared.

“Miss Volker does all the work,” I replied. “She’s really good at thinking up the obits.”

“I don’t mean the obit,” he said. “I mean the typing. You are getting better.”

I beamed. “Thanks,” I said, and tapped my fingers on the counter.

“If you have any spare time I could always use an extra hand around here,” he offered. “I could teach you how to work the press.”

“I’m grounded for the summer,” I explained. “But let me see what I can do.”

“Let me know,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

17

“Your whole summer is wasting away,”
Bunny complained the following week in that wilting tone of disgust she was so good at. “Think about it. This is the summer of your life when you did
nothing
! Oh, I take that back,” she said suddenly, and pointed her accusing finger at the bomb shelter. “This is the summer you dug your own grave!”

Her attack almost succeeded in turning me against myself, but after I thought about my last month I said, “You’re wrong. I’m having a very interesting summer.”

She did not like to be disagreed with and she never gave up easily. She seemed to compress down into an even smaller version of herself so that she looked like an angry tree stump with short stubby branches for arms.

“No, you are wrong,” she said, shooting forward and poking me hard in the chest. “You are supposed to be my friend, and we’ve done nothing together.”

“You held my hand when I was around the dead Hells Angel,” I reminded her.

“Only because you were sick as a sissy,” she replied. “Why can’t we do something that’s fun?”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like playing baseball,” she suggested. “We have a game against Hecla this afternoon and we only have five players. We’re going to get our butts kicked. Mr. Spizz said he’d be our pitcher but that is too weird to have an ancient old guy on a kids’ team.”

“He’s not that old,” I said slyly. “He rides a tricycle.”

“You know what I mean!” she said, and gave me a shove. “Now prove you’re my friend and do something.”

“Hold on then,” I said to her. “I’ll be right back.”

I ran into the house and down the hall to my room. I pulled my T-shirt off and put my Huffer Funeral Parlor baseball shirt on, then grabbed my glove and hat and my ONE FLIGHT IN THE J-3 ticket. Mom was in the kitchen chopping mushrooms and dill for a chicken soup she was cooking for the old ladies.

I walked up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned around I asked, “Can I trade in this ticket and go play one game of baseball?” I asked. “Bunny needs me on the team.”

At first she didn’t look hopeful, but once she recognized the ticket I was holding she brightened up. “We can do an even swap,” she said. “Besides, I think it is for your own good not to get into that plane. It scares me.” Then she glanced at the stove clock. It was just before noon. “But don’t make it too late, as you have to help Miss Volker sack up bags of cookies for tonight’s dinners.”

“You’re the best,” I said, then dashed out the door and nearly knocked the gum out of Bunny’s mouth as I slapped her on the back with my glove. “Follow me,” I shouted. “I’m free as a bird.” We took off for the ballpark.

It felt so good to just run and not have to think of a thing but playing ball. Being grounded had beaten me down and it was as if being a kid had become a Lost World for me. But the more I ran and smiled and thought of baseball my old kid self was found again, until we passed by Miss Volker’s front porch and I heard her faintly call my name. I kept running. And then I heard it again.

“Jackie!” This time she split the air with her demanding voice.

Bunny shot me a look. “Play like you didn’t hear it,” she chuffed.

“I can’t,” I replied, and slowed down. “She needs me.”

“Don’t you dare mess this day up,” Bunny warned, and spit at my sneaker. “Ignore her!”

I couldn’t and peeled off toward Miss Volker’s house. She was standing on the porch. “Jackie!” she called out again, and waved one of her misshapen hands. “I’m afraid we’ve got another original down for the count. Mrs. Linga. Section E, house number 17. Let’s get going.”

“Good grief!” Bunny cried out. “I live with dead people all day long. I don’t need to see another one.”

“Come on,” I begged, “this will be something we can do together.”

“Okay,” she groaned, “but make it fast. We have a game in an hour.”

“No problem,” I said, but I was uncertain about that. Miss Volker always liked to take her time. The hands on her kitchen clock were just as useless to her as her own two hands.

*   *   *

As soon as I got both of them in the car we took off for Mrs. Linga’s house. It didn’t take us long to get there, but Mr. Huffer had beat us to the body. Thankfully he had already covered Mrs. Linga with a white sheet. The sharp peaks of her stiff knees and elbows made the sheet take on the shape of a small iceberg. I looked at it for a moment too long and began to think of the frosty remains of small animals I’d find in the woods just as the spring snow thawed.

I looked away from the sheet and noticed one of Mom’s partially eaten casseroles on the kitchen table along with an open bag of Thin Mints I had helped Miss Volker package up.

“Hi, sweetie,” Mr. Huffer said as Bunny dragged herself though the doorway.

“Hey, Dad,” she replied glumly as she stepped casually over Mrs. Linga on her way to open the refrigerator. It was empty except for the moldy smells that rolled out and were more deadly than the wavy odors rising off of Mr. Huffer’s spongy suit.

“What do you think was the cause of death?” Miss Volker asked him as we all stood in the kitchen around the sheet. I glanced from the table to the orange linoleum floor, which looked like the inside of a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Complications from that broken hip,” he said matter-of-factly as he held a partially carved wooden duck and a carving tool in his hands. “Looks like she was eating while carving and somehow slipped out of her chair and hit her head.” He pointed toward the corner of the table where there was a swipe of fresh blood. The instant I saw the blood I looked up at the cotton-white ceiling and covered my nose.