The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place (20 page)

•   •   •

Even though I was certain that I had not slept a wink all night, I later reasoned that I must have. Otherwise, why would I remember being awakened by the sound of men's voices? The first thing I saw was Tartufo, up on all fours, standing at attention, waiting for instructions to bark or not to. I held my finger over my lips, and Tartufo sat down, his ears forward. What a good dog he was. How could Jake have said that he would be no end of trouble? He was a comfort and a companion.

I lifted a corner of the tarp and saw three men standing outside the fence, resting their forearms on its top rail. They seemed to be studying the towers. The morning breeze had shifted, and their conversation came to me in puffs of sound.

“. . . never seen nothing like this . . .”

“Why . . . want to take them down?”

“. . . not safe ...”

“. . . neighborhood look bad . . .”

“. . . look good to me . . .”

The men took rolls of yellow tape out of the back of their truck, opened the back gate, and came inside the yard. They started stretching the tape from post to post along the fence. It looked like the CRIME-SCENE tape I had seen on the TV news. I was too far away to read what it said, but I believed that what these men were
about to do was a crime, and any tape that said so was perfectly suitable. (I later learned that it said
CAUTION
.)

Tartufo was quiet until the man who had been sitting in the driver's seat of the truck came into the yard. And then he began to bark. Tarfufo knew a villain when he saw one. He got louder and louder and more and more insistent. The men holding the rolls of yellow plastic tape began to back away. In another minute, Uncle Alex, in bare feet and a short terry-cloth robe, came to the back door. Uncle Morris, similarly dressed, followed. Uncle Morris's comb-over stood up like a cockscomb. The two of them shielded their eyes with their hands and focused on the source of Tartufo's barking.

I laughed with relief. My secret was out. My plan was under way.

“Hi,” I called down.

“What are you doing up there, Margitkám?”

“Taking possession,” I answered. “Possession is nine points of the law.”

“Is Tartufo all right?” Uncle Alex asked.

“See for yourself,” I answered. “He's been up here with me all night.” I beckoned Tartufo to come to the edge of the platform to show Uncle what fine shape he was in.

The fat driver of the truck came all the way into the
yard and stood at the bottom of the back steps in front of the Uncles. He yelled up at me, “You can come down now, young lady.”

“I can't,” I answered.

“Don't tell me you can't.”

“See for yourself,” I said, standing up awkwardly. “I am tethered,” I yelled, stretching my leg so that he could see the length of chain.

“You come down this minute,” the fat man called. “We have a job to do.”

“So do I.”

“And what is that, young lady?”

“To stop you.”

“Well, I'm afraid you won't be able to do that. I have an order from City Hall to take these towers down.”

“And I have possession,” I said. “Possession is nine points of the law. As soon as you touch these towers, you are trespassing.”

The Uncles looked at each other and smiled, and in a gesture of harmony I had never before witnessed, they hugged each other and laughed out loud. “We've got to get to work now,” Uncle Morris said.

Uncle Alex asked, “Do you have something to eat up there?”

“I do.”

“Lunch?”

“Lunch, too.”

“Good,” he said. “We'll stop back before we leave for the day in case there's anything you need.” With a wave that was very close to being a salute, they went back inside the house.

Tartufo barked.

After the tape was stretched all around the fence, one of the men drove tall stakes into the earth around the path that separated the roses and peppers garden from the towers. A second man stretched the yellow tape from stake to stake, and the third fastened triangular red flags on to the yellow tape. They did not seem to be in a hurry, and after they finished hanging the flags, they congregated in the far corner of the yard. They folded their arms across their chests and said nothing, but they smiled as they studied the towers and talked among themselves.

The foreman, whose name I soon learned was Tony, walked back to his truck and took a clipboard from the seat and a can of Coke from the dashboard. He returned to Tower Two, pulled a page from the clipboard, and waved it in the air. “I have papers from City Hall,” he said.

“I have papers too,” I said, leaning over to reach the plastic bag containing my proof of ownership. “I own
these towers, and I forbid you to set foot on them. If you try, I'll have you arrested for trespassing.”

Tony took a long swig from the can of Coke, crushed the can in one hand, and tossed it on the ground.

“Pick that up,” I said, “or I'll have you arrested for littering as well as trespassing.”

“Come down and make me.”

“Ha! Nice try.” I thrust my manacled foot out as far as the chain would allow. “Sorry,” I said, “but I already told you, I am tethered.”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“I am Margaret Rose, and this is Tartufo, and we belong here, and you don't.”

“I have a court order,” he said. He took a deep breath. “These towers are coming down, young lady, right after you do.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“You will be coming down, little girl, if we have to personally climb up there with an acetylene torch and burn that thing off your leg.” He paused just a minute and added, “Now, what say you just tell us where the key is, and we'll have you down here in a minute.”

It was probably his saying “if
we
have to” and “just tell us” that got to me. I said, “I prefer not to.”

A stifled laugh came from the direction of the three
helpers. For a man with a dirigible for a stomach, Tony managed to turn toward them real fast, and the men managed to turn their backs on him just as fast. They started straightening stakes that did not need straightening and tightening tape that didn't need tightening. Tony decided to take a kinder, gentler approach. “Who put you up there, little girl?” he asked.

“I am here of my own free will.”

“What about that dog?”

“He volunteered. As a matter of fact, he insisted.” “Yeah?” he said. “We'll see about that.” He called to the three men, “C'mon guys. We've got work to do elsewhere.” He paused by the gate and said, “I'll be back.”

“Don't hurry on my account,” I replied.

As he turned to leave, I heard him say to the other men, “That cocky little she-brat is gonna pay.”

I watched one of the three men pick up the bent Coke can and toss it over the back fence. I heard it hit the floor of the truck bed and watched the man who threw it look up at me, smile, and give me a thumbs-up.

For many reasons—not the least of which was my need to take care of certain body functions—I was happy to see them go. I pulled the flap of tarp back down. The only side that was left open was the side facing the
house. I tried to think of myself as sitting on a howdah until Tartufo came over and sat in front of me. He made me so self-conscious that my normal morning call of nature went unanswered. I was numb. I couldn't go. “Move,” I said to Tartufo. “Go,” I urged. “Go away,” I scolded. I knew that
capisci
did not mean what I needed it to mean, but it was the only word I knew in his native language, and I thought it sounded like what I needed to do. Onomatopoeia.
“Capisci!”
I said, and I added,
“Capisco!”
—with emphasis on the second syllable. But Tartufo did not move. He continued to stare. I told myself that Tartufo was only a dog, only a dog, only a dog. When I realized that even though he was only a dog, he would have the same need I had, my worries shifted from me to him, and I was able to answer nature's call.

Dressed now and ready for work, my uncles came into the yard and called up to me. I lifted the tarp and asked them what I could do about Tartufo.

Uncle Alex had a quick answer. “Let him go against the vertical pole. Then step back as far as you can. I'll hose it down.”

“Simple,” I said, relieved. “Thanks.”

Uncle Morris helped by turning the water on and off after Uncle Alex had carefully aimed the jet to the exact place where Tartufo went.

•   •   •

When Tony's truck returned, it was leading a caravan. A fire engine followed him, and a white Animal Control van from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals followed the fire engine. Tartufo was to be rescued. Animals, it seemed, had rights that overruled the nine-points rule; and that is when Jake's prediction that Tartufo was going to be
no end of trouble
came true.

The fire truck pulled up to the front of 19 Schuyler Place and ran its long ladder against the front of the house. A fireman and the animal control person climbed across the roof, lifted themselves up the rungs of the towers to my platform, and took Tartufo, who barked and fought. But these men were experienced at handling mad dogs, and his nipping and yipping hardly slowed them down. I screamed and yelled and told them they had no right, but they paid no attention to me, either. They didn't even answer me until I asked where they were taking him, and they said, “The county pound.” They put him in the white van, and even after I heard the doors close, I could hear him whining. It was pitiful.

Tony came into the yard and picked up the garden hose that Uncle Alex had left lying on the ground. He called to one of his assistants to turn it on. “Full force!” he commanded.

The man, the one who had given me a thumbs-up,
said, “Not a good idea, Tony. You'll make her slippery.”

“And I'll also make her wet. Turn it on, I tell you.”

The man walked away. Swearing and cursing me, the men, the day—everything!—Tony walked over to the spigot and turned it on. He adjusted the nozzle to jet stream and aimed. I dropped the tarp, but it was no use. The force of the jet lifted it as easily as a flamenco dancer's petticoats.

I grabbed the plastic bag of my ownership papers and wrapped it in my poncho. I watched my crackers, beef jerky, and trail mix become soup, and my Walkman, flashlight, and three summer-reading-list books get ruined. But my double-wrapped documents stayed dry. By standing with my back to the spray, I managed to open my umbrella. I used it like a shield, but Tony managed to drag the hose around so that he took steady aim at the inside of the umbrella until it turned inside out and became useless. Then he aimed at my face. I closed my eyes and tried to shield my face with my arms, but I lost my balance and fell. Fell in such an awkward position with my shackled leg twisted behind me that I could not maneuver, and I had to endure the full force of the jet stream with my eyes closed and my hands shielding my face as best they could.

While I was trying to keep from drowning, I did not
see or hear—how could I possibly have seen or heard anything?—the firemen entering the Tower Garden from the alley. I did not know they were there until I heard a fireman yelling, “What in hell do you think you are doing?”

And then the water suddenly stopped.

I had only a brief minute of believing I was saved, for in the time it took for the fireman to reach the spigot, another had scaled the tower and was standing behind me. I was twisted into the place where I had fallen. I could not see him, but I heard him say, “Stay calm, miss. I won't hurt you.”

From my awkward position, I could see a second fireman making his way up the rungs of the tower. Not certain if the platform could hold his weight as well as mine, he called to the men below and told them to spread a net. Still invisible to me, I heard the man behind me say, “It's okay It'll hold.” And then he gently locked my arms behind me and waited until the second man reached the rungs just below my platform.

He had a ring of keys. One by one, he tried them on the cuffs. On the fourth try he succeeded, and he called down to the men waiting at the foot of the ladder, “Got it!”

Wet and humiliated, I was slung over the fireman's shoulder and carried down.

Tony looked on with satisfaction.

The three workmen, with sympathy.

W
ithout sirens blaring or lights flashing, I was taken to the juvenile detention center in a police car. I was delivered to a large woman who sat behind a large desk on the third floor. She had a barrel-shaped neck that sat on shoulders broad enough to balance epaulets as wide as cookie spatulas. She smiled when she saw me. Unlike Mrs. Kaplan's, her smile was not appliquéd but included her eyes, her mouth, and the laugh lines that connected them. She smiled when she was amused. I obviously amused her, which did not amuse me.

“Aren't I allowed one phone call?” I asked.

She laughed. “Been watching a lot of TV?”

“That's not an answer,” I replied. “Can I or can I not make a phone call?”

She slid the phone across her desk. “Be my guest.”

“I would like a little privacy,” I said.

She looked around the room. “I say that to myself—oh, about three, maybe four times a day. Sorry, but this is the only phone we have available for our criminals.”

“I am not a criminal. I am here for protective custody. They didn't even put on the sirens when they brought me in.”

She laughed again. “That in itself should be considered criminal.” She pointed her chin toward the phone. “Dial 9 for an outside line.”

“I've done that before,” I said.

“Have you also reversed charges to make a longdistance call?”

“Yes, I have. But what do I do if they won't accept the charges?”

“Then, sweetie, you hang up and try a different friend.”