The Way to Schenectady (2 page)

“Come on, Bernie,” I said. “Give me the marker.”

“What?!” cried Dad from the kitchen. He was still on the phone. I could see the back of his head, where he was grabbing his hair with his free hand. “Whose idea was this?” he said.

Bill appeared at the other end of the hallway. I saw him over the top of Bernie’s head.

“Bossy!” said Bernie. It’s what he calls me when he’s mad. “Bossy, bossy, bossy!”

I kept my distance. My shirt was new and white. “Bernie, I want you to put down the marker.” I spoke distinctly, like a cop on
TV
. “Can you do that? Then no one will get hurt. Do you understand me, Bernie?” He glowered.

“Why do
we
have to take her?” said Dad.

Bill was sneaking down the narrow, dimly lit hall.

“Look at me, Bernie,” I said. “Don’t turn around. I really think you’re making a mistake here. Just put the pen down.…”

“Two days! Easy for you, you’re already there,” said Dad.

“Captain Stardust, to the rescue!” Bill pounced on Bernie from behind. I took a swift step forward and grabbed him from in front. We both tried to get our hands on Bernie’s wrist, but he was waving his arm wildly. In our excitement and the strength of the combined rush, we all ended up on the floor. Time passed
slowly, all of us struggling together. I felt something poke me in the stomach a couple of times, and heard Bill cry out once. Bernie, the baby, wriggled between us in silent, determined fury.

“Grandma’s coming with us?” said Bill, his face screwed up in horror. At least I think it was. Hard to tell behind the magic-marker lines. “In the van?”

Bernie started to whimper.

Grandmothers on
TV
all seem to be short and fat and jolly. They make cookies and give presents and hugs. Their houses always smell like something really good is about to come out of the oven. Ours is not a
TV
grandma. She is long and thin and stringy. She sniffs a lot, and doesn’t look at you when she’s speaking. Once I heard her call Bernie a limb of Satan. I think he’d just knocked over a vase full of flowers. I asked Dad what a limb of Satan was, and if Bernie really was one. “No,” he said, “it’s just Grandma being mean.”

“Why is she coming with
us
?” I said. “We don’t like her and she doesn’t like us.”

“It’s your Auntie Vera’s idea,” said Dad, with a sigh. “She thinks it’ll do Grandma good.”

“Why can’t she take the train?” I asked. “Or walk?”

“Or stay home,” said Bernie.

“You won’t let me take Charles and Paul,” said Bill, “because there won’t be enough room.” Charles and Paul are gerbils – space companions for Captain Billy Stardust. We used to call them Charles and Pauline, but
after a year together it was pretty clear that we’d guessed wrong. A friend of Bill’s was looking after them for us. “I miss Charles and Paul already,” said Bill. “How can there be room for Grandma, and not for them?”

New England is a long way from Toronto, where we live. We couldn’t drive there in a day. I had spent a lot of time with the map, and I couldn’t see a way around it. We would have to stay overnight somewhere. A night with Grandma; another night without Mom.

“When are we leaving?” asked Bill.

“Right away. As soon as I clean up the kitchen. We’ll pick up Grandma, and then get out on the highway. Put some real distance under our belts before lunch.”

Bill and I looked at each other. “Right away” was what Dad always said. As far as he was concerned, everything was going to happen right away. In this case, right away sounded like about an hour.

Dad stared at us. Separating the three of us in the hall had been difficult – like separating eggs in an omelet – and he’d been distracted, thinking about Grandma. Now he was noticing us for the first time. “Bill, I want you to wash your face. And Jane, honey, I think you’d better change your shirt. It’s covered in magic marker.”

My clean white shirt. “Okay,” I said, with a murderous glance at Bernie.

“Wilco,” said Bill.

Bernie hung his head. He was completely free of marks. Even his hands were clean.

“What’s for lunch?” Bill asked.

“Hard-boiled eggs and buns, and cheese sandwiches,” I said. “Two eggs each and one extra.” I had helped Dad boil the eggs last night. “And apples. We’ll have to remember to add one for Grandma.”

Dad turned to go back to the kitchen. “And I was wondering if, maybe, someone would like to try a cold chicken drumstick,” he said.

I was mistaken. Right away was only about fifteen minutes. I had just enough time to change my shirt and comb my hair before Dad yelled that it was time to go.

“Wilco!” I heard Bill outside my bedroom door, and hurried. We ran together – neck and neck – down the stairs, out the door, and into the beautiful July sunshine. Bill beat me to the van, which meant that he got to sit in the front seat. Bernie isn’t allowed to sit there – Dad and Mom are afraid he might get killed by the safety air bag. They don’t seem to worry that Bill or I might get killed by the safety air bag.

“Captain Stardust in the command position of the ruby-red space capsule!” he cried. “Ready for takeoff!” Bill doesn’t talk astro-gabble all the time. Sometimes he pretends to be an animal, or a tree, or a building. Sometimes he is just Bill, like in the song my Dad sings in the shower. But I think part of him really believes in Captain Billy. My brother spends a lot of time inside his head.

When he was younger, he liked to be Wild Bill, the cowboy hero. Last year he was Professor Billenstein, the nuclear scientist – until Dad made him get his hair cut.

I stood on the sidewalk, trying to catch my breath. The sliding door of the van was open. Bernie was strapped into his car seat. He was getting too big for it, and he looked like a Thanksgiving turkey in an undersized pan, spilling over the edges, waving his wings and drumsticks around. I was about to climb in beside him when I saw a brown blur out of the corner of my eye, and felt a momentary ruffling against my bare ankles.

Queenie, the little dog from across the street, had darted into the van and disappeared under the backseat. She likes our van: there’s always something to eat on the floor.

No one said anything. Hadn’t they seen Queenie?

“Get in, Jane, and close the door,” said Dad.

“But -”

“Get in. We don’t want to keep Grandma waiting.”

“I really think -”

“Jane!”

I closed the door. If that’s what he wanted. Dad started the car.

“Excuse me!” Mr. Timms was tapping on Dad’s window. Mr. Timms looks after Queenie. As usual, he was wearing a bright golfing windbreaker and a porkpie hat, with a white feather in the brim to match his white
mustache. He carried a tennis racket. Queenie loves to chase tennis balls. “Excuse me, Mr. Peeler.”

Dad sighed, and rolled down the window. “Yes, Mr. Timms?”

“I think,” said Mr. Timms, staring into the back, “that you might have a stowaway in your van.”

“What?” Dad craned his neck around.

“A stowaway?” said Bill.

“Arf,” said Queenie, from underneath the backseat.

“I tried to tell you,” I said.

“I never saw her get in,” said Dad. “I guess the mirrors are angled too high.”

I opened the sliding door. Mr. Timms reached in and grabbed Queenie by the collar.

“Good-bye,” I said to him. “Bye, Queenie.”

“Good-bye,” said Mr. Timms. “Have a nice trip. Don’t pick up any strangers.”

The van made a grinding sound when Dad wrenched it out of its parking spot. “Bye, house,” said Bernie. I understood. I like to say good-bye to the house, too. It stood like an old woman, tall and thin-shouldered, with a sagging porch in the front. The flyaway shingles at the top could have been wispy gray hair. It leaned outward, as if it needed the support of the big maple tree in the front yard to stay up.

I unfolded the map and checked my watch against the van’s clock.

“Are we there yet?” said Bill.

Dad glared at him.

“Just joking.”

That Bill – what a kidder.

Grandma lives in a big building, with a view of another big building across the way. We don’t go to her apartment very often and, when we do, we don’t stay very long. That suits me fine. There are a hundred thousand little things in the apartment, and none of them is worth playing with. Some of them are pretty, I guess: painted china people – people made out of china, I mean, they don’t look Chinese and they don’t have
MADE IN CHINA
on them – and crystal animals, but if I ever pick one up, I’m told pretty quickly to put it down.

Today she was waiting for us in her living room. Her suitcase and a cooler were right by the door. She had her purse open, but she snapped it shut when we came in.

“What kept you?” she asked Dad. “I buzzed you in five minutes ago.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mother-in-law.” He leaned forward to kiss the air near her cheek.

Bernie pushed the button to call the elevator. He pushed it again, and again.

“The elevator isn’t a dog, Bernard,” said Grandma. She is absolutely the only person in the world who calls Bernie by his full name. “You don’t have to keep calling it.”
“What if it did come when you call?” asked Bill. His eyes lit up like the elevator call button. He loves ideas that start with “what if.” “Hey, Bernie, I’ll be the elevator, and you call me.” He got down on all fours. “Arf,” he said. His bark was deeper than Queenie’s. “Arf arf!”

Bernie grinned. “Here, elevator,” he called. “Here, boy.”

“Arf!” said Bill, scampering over. “Arf arf!”

Grandma sighed.

She sighed again when we got inside the elevator and Bernie pressed all the buttons he could reach, which, fortunately, were only 4, 3, 2, and Ground.

“He did it on the way up, too,” I said. “That’s why we were late.”

“Wait here, everybody,” said Dad, when we got outside. “I’ll bring the van around.”

“Why did you park so far away?” Grandma scowled. She had two deep grooves worn into the middle of her face from all the other times she had scowled.

Dad sprinted off down the street, Grandma’s suitcase banging against his leg, her cooler under his arm, his shirttail flapping behind him like a flag on a windy day.

Grandma opened her purse, put her hand in, then took it out. She frowned, closed her purse, and stared across the street.

It was hot and still. Traffic crawled up the street toward us, and down the street away from us. A regular
boom boom boom
came from inside a little car with tinted windows. The windows were rolled up, but I could still hear the bass thumping away. Bill stared at the car, mesmerized. “What if it was an animal,” he breathed, “with a huge mechanical heart?”

Four more years, I thought. In four more years, I’ll be old enough to drive. The car rolled down the street toward the intersection, and the sound of the radio faded into the day. We waited on the sidewalk. Not much to say. Bernie was bent over, looking at bugs. Bill had his head turned, to watch the car as it turned the corner.

“Do you like my hair, Grandma?” I said, just to make conversation.

She looked startled. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “That’s right. It
is
different, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s ugly,” said Bill.

I stuck out my tongue at him. Childish, I know, but I couldn’t help it.

“Look,” said Bernie. He held up his hand. On it was a beetle.

“Oh, dear,” said Grandma. She took a step back from us. Now I could read her thoughts as easily as the headlines of the newspaper:
Two days in a van with them? I must be crazy.
She opened her purse again. This time she found what she was looking for. She took out a cigarette and lit it with a plastic lighter.

Bernie smiled at the bug on his hand, and then bent down to place it carefully on the grass at the edge of the sidewalk.

“What are you staring at, Bill?” Grandma sucked greedily on the little white stick. Smoke drifted out of her nose in a lazy gray stream. Bill blushed and looked away. We’d both spent hours in school watching videos about what happens to your lungs when you smoke. I didn’t want to think about Grandma’s lungs.

“I see a blue lady,” said Bernie. He’s not really sure about his colors yet.

A bus passed by. People walked by. Everyone going someplace. Some of them had briefcases; others had knapsacks. One old man, with a beard like Santa Claus, pushed a baby carriage filled with junk. He smiled at us as he passed. Bernie smiled back. Grandma didn’t.

“So that’s what’s keeping your father,” she said, peering down the street. She started to laugh. With the cigarette in her mouth, she looked like a fire-breathing dragon.

I followed her gaze and saw Dad talking – Bernie had got it right – to a blue lady. A policewoman. Dad’s hands were in the air, pleading. She had a notebook in her hand, and an expression of complete and utter disbelief on her face.

It was a time for action. “Come on,” I said. “We have to help.”

“Why?” said Grandma.

I stared up at her.
Didn’t she care?
“Because he’s getting a ticket. He’s in trouble.” I turned to my brothers. “Come on! Let’s help Dad.”

“Your father told you to stay here,” said Grandma.

“This is an emergency. Come on, guys!”

“Wilco!” said Bill.

“Dad said …” Bernie began, but Bill and I each grabbed one of his arms, and ran with him bumping between us.

“Hey!” That was Grandma behind us. “Bernard, William, Jane, come back!”

We kept running. Grandma’s shrill voice followed us, like a lost soul searching for a home. Looking back, I saw her – not running, exactly, old people don’t run – but moving as fast as she could. “Wait for me,” she called. “I’m coming, you little baskets!”

I think that’s what she called us.