The Way to Schenectady (7 page)

I didn’t unpack except for my toothbrush and pajamas. I zipped up my suitcase again, and put my travel case on top of it.

Bill already had his bathing suit on. And his mask and snorkel. And fins. Diver Bill, ready to explore another alien environment.

“There’s no pool here,” I said.

“Sure there is, Miss Smarty-pants. This is Watertown, right?”

“So?”

“So hotels come with pools. Pools of water.”

“Gee, what do hotels come with in Washington? Washing machines?”

He frowned behind his mask.

“In Denver, do the hotels have dens?” I asked. “In Helsinki, do they all have sinks?”

He was trying to frown, but he couldn’t keep it up. “Maybe. And guess what they have in Hamburg?”

“Or Bombay?” I said. “Or Flushing Meadows?”

“Cows,” said Bernie, bouncing up and down on the bed. “Point for me.” There was a picture on the wall, with cows in it.

“We’re not playing that game anymore,” I said.

“Dad,” Bill called to my father in the other room, “is there a pool in this hotel?”

“Sorry, son.”

“Told you,” I said.

“Oh, dear,” said Grandma. She was outside on the little balcony. “There’s a dead body.”

“Point for Grandma,” said Bernie.

I went outside on the balcony. It smelt like rain was coming. From up here on the second floor, I could see a bunch of cars rusting quietly in a gravel lot. None of them had any tires. On the other side was a billboard advertising a career in the army,
BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE
.

Not an attractive view, and the body didn’t help. It really looked dead. I’ve seen enough of them on
TV
to know what they look like. Shapeless and small, a pile of old clothes lying on the ground. There was a newspaper covering its head. When it blew away, I thought I’d faint.

Oh, no. Oh, no.
It was Marty – lying there and not moving. He’d collapsed. Was he … I felt ill. I felt like I was about to cry.

Grandma stood beside me. I could smell the powder she puts on. Old lady smell.

“There, there,” she said.

Her words didn’t register. The first kind ones I could remember my grandmother saying to me, and I was too preoccupied to notice. “Is he really dead?” I said. “Maybe we should check.”

I watched closely. A breeze came up to ruffle Marty’s clothes and the newspapers beside his head. It began to rain. I felt it. So did Marty. He moved. He struggled up
into a sitting position, then used a rusted car to lean on while he pulled himself to his feet. I sighed with relief. He reached into his pocket and took out the donut I’d given him.

“Jane, are you all right?” The rain beaded like diamonds in Grandma’s fine silver hair.

“Yes, I’m okay,” I said. “I’m great.”

Bill came outside to check. “Is it really a – hey, wait a minute.” He’d recognized Marty. “Isn’t that …” His voice trailed away.

“What?” asked Grandma.

“Nothing,” said Bill.

Marty wandered away. From up here he looked even smaller than usual.

“Come on,” I said, dragging Bill inside.

I don’t understand Mom when she says how sick she is of hotels. I couldn’t get sick of hotels if I lived in them forever. Imagine an eternity of room service, of wrapping all the big towels around you, of bouncing on all the beds, and never having to tidy up. Imagine an eternity of roast chicken dinners in a fancy dining room, with cream gravy and mashed potatoes, and ice cream sundaes for dessert. I can hardly bear to think about it – it’s too beautiful.

Ah, well, I determined to make the most of my own heavenly moment in the Watertown Inn. “Butterscotch sundae,” I said to the waitress, who gave me a smile and
said she understood, dearie, and would make it herself, extra specially, with all the hot butterscotch sauce she could find.

“Chocolate sundae,” said Bill, avidly. He licked his lips in anticipation.

“I feel sick,” said Bernie.

“Too sick for ice cream?” I asked incredulously. He nodded.

Dad reached across the table and put his hand on Bernie’s forehead. “Hot,” he said.

I felt my own forehead. Some of my hair had come out of the barrettes I use to keep it in place. I repinned it.

“Is Bernard going to be sick?” asked Grandma.

Dad ignored her. “Jane, Bill, I’m going to take Bernie up to the room. Okay? You stay here and eat your ice cream. Come on, Bernie. Come with Daddy.” He gathered him up in his arms. The way Bernie’s head flopped against Dad’s chest and the way his little arms went instinctively around Dad’s neck told me, more clearly than any thermometer, that he was a sick little guy. “Night night,” he said to everyone. His cheeks were red. His eyes were closed.

Then the waitress came with the ice cream, and I forgot about Bernie. The whole world came down to a white china bowl, a teaspoon, and a mouthful of delight. Paradise passed in a waking dream of sweet fulfillment.

“My goodness, William, anyone would think you were in a race,” said Grandma.

I looked up absently. Bill, of course, was finished his dessert. Grandma frowned at him over an almost full cup of coffee.

“Can I go?” he asked.

My bowl was barely touched. No point in hurrying through paradise. I always eat slowly. Why wait all afternoon for dinner, and then toss it down like a couple of aspirin?

“Can I go back to base now, Grandma? I mean, to the room?”

“By yourself?”

“Affirmative,” he said. “There are clear markers. I’ll be fine. I know where it is. I’m ten years old, for heaven’s sake.”

She waved her hand. “Make sure you go straight up to the room.” He saluted and disappeared – another dangerous mission for Captain Billy. I went back to my dessert. More time passed.

The restaurant was in the downstairs part of the inn, a big room with plants on the ceiling and a row of windows. From our table you could see the street. Imagine my surprise when, as the last melted drips of ice cream
and butterscotch were gliding slowly down my throat, I glanced up at the windows and saw a familiar face.

Grandma was on her feet. “Jane, that’s it. You’re finished. I don’t think they’ll have to wash that bowl now. Or the spoon. They can just put them back in the rack and use them again on another ice cream lover.”

“What’s Bill doing out there?” I said.

“Where?”

“Out there. He was at the window beside that empty booth … just a second ago. Then he walked away down the street.”

Grandma frowned, piling a whole rack of V-shaped wrinkles between her eyes.

“Should we go and get him?” I said. “He’s probably lost.” For an interplanetary explorer, Bill gets lost very easily.

The waitress came up. “Is something wrong?” she asked Grandma.

“It’s Bill,” I answered for her. “He’s outside and he may be lost.”

“Your brother? The chocolate sundae?”

“Yes.”

“Door’s over there,” she said. “I’ll take care of your check. What room are you in?”

Grandma blinked. “I don’t remember,” she said.

“Neither did Bill,” I said.

When we got outside, there was no sign of him. “Come on,” I told Grandma, and pulled her down the street.

“Where are we going?” asked Grandma.

“We’re following Bill,” I answered. “I think he got lost on his way to the room. So he left the hotel and is now walking around it, trying to find the room from the outside.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s Bill. Why would he eat a chocolate sundae in two bites?”

Grandma couldn’t answer that one.

“I don’t think Bill could be here,” she said. We were around the back of the hotel, in a fenced-off area with parked vans and garbage cans and a smell I recognized as lobster bisque. I’d had it as an appetizer less than an hour before.

“You’re probably right,” I said. Then, over top of the wooden fence, I saw the same billboard I had seen
earlier that afternoon.
BE ALL THAT YOU CAN BE
. Pictures of people in jeeps, in tanks, in parachutes. In control. The girl driving the jeep had no hair.

The window of our room was nearby, but where? I was pulling Grandma toward the end of the fence when I heard Bill’s voice. I froze. So did Grandma.

“Help!” Bill shouted. “Help me, Dad!” It came from up ahead of us. We hurried toward the sound.

Dad’s voice was fainter than Bill’s, but audible. “Bill!” he shouted. “Where are Grandma and Jane?”

“I’m lost!” shouted Bill.

“What?” shouted Dad.

“I’m lost!” shouted Bill. “Lost. I can’t find the room.”

“Where are Grandma and Jane?”

“I don’t know. Can you come down and get me now?”

“I’m locked out!” said Dad. “The balcony door slammed shut on me when I came out, and now I can’t get back in to the room. Come up here and get me out!”

“I can’t” shouted Bill.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m lost!”

Grandma snorted. I looked up and saw a ghost of a smile on her face.

“Men,” I said, under my breath.

“You said it, missy.”

We came to the end of the fence, and found ourselves in the gravel lot full of rusting cars. Sunlight had faded
at the end of the long summer day. No automobile traffic. No pedestrians. The streetscape behind the hotel was deserted, except for Dad and Bill shouting at each other. Dad was bending over the rail of the balcony, and gesturing extravagantly. Bill was looking up, with hope beginning to give way to doubt. Not quite Romeo and Juliet. Neither of them noticed us right away. Grandma stopped to look at one of the rusted cars.

“Okay. Go around to the front door,” Dad was shouting at Bill. “And tell the woman at the desk to come up here right away with the key.”

“Come up where?” said Bill. “What’s the room number?”

Dad’s mouth opened wide. I could see his pink tongue gleaming from two floors down. “Don’t
you
know either?”

“Bill!” I called. “Dad! We’re here!”

“Jane!” Bill whirled around. Tears mingled with the chocolate syrup on his face. No longer the intrepid Captain Billy. Just a little lost boy in a strange town. “And Grandma. Am I ever glad to see you!” He ran toward us, gave me a hug, then threw his arms around Grandma. She looked startled. Tentatively she put her arms around his shoulders.

“Jane!” Dad was waving at us. “Helen!”

A first. I can’t remember the last time Dad called her Helen. She didn’t blink.

“Where’s Bernie?” I called.

“He’s sleeping. I can see him through the window. But I’m locked out. Can you come and get me please?”

“I don’t have the room key,” called Grandma. “You took it, remember?”

“Get another one from the desk.”

“Yes, but what room number are we?”

Dad stopped and stood still for a second. “You don’t know either?” he said.

“Of course not.”

“Doesn’t
anyone
know what room number we are?” he shouted at the heavens.

I couldn’t keep it in any longer. “211,” I said.

Bill sighed.

“Thank you, Jane,” said Dad. “You are the girl with brain. Now get another key from the front desk and let me back in to the room.”

“Okay.”

“People actually live in these abandoned cars,” Grandma commented as we passed. “There are blankets and sleeping bags and tins of food.”