Catch You Later, Traitor Page 6

  Next moment he stood up and said, “I once promised myself that if I ever had kids I’d never let them down. If they asked, I’d tell them the truth. You and Kat still friends?”

  “Think so,” I mumbled.

  “She’s a great kid. Even if you disagree about politics, you can be friends.” He moved toward the door. “Okay, Pal, anytime you want more talk, we’ll talk. Remember, family get-together on Sunday.”

  I don’t know what my face was saying, but he said, “Families are important, Pete. We don’t get together that often.”

  When he went out of the room, all I could think was, What is he keeping secret?

  14

  I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack I’d never noticed before. Made me think: You can look at something your whole life and not notice it. Like looking at a dime. Like looking at my dad. Or his dad. Like looking at my whole family.

  I told myself it was better not to tell Dad about the FBI visit because it would upset him even more. Except that wasn’t the true reason. I didn’t tell him because what he said—and didn’t say—frightened me. Because another thought had crept in: Maybe Dad, when he was a kid, did something really bad. Maybe that’s why he was cagey. Maybe that’s why the FBI was after him.

  Or was the FBI coming after Dad to learn about his father? Ewing had asked about him. Except, Dad told me his father died.

  “Hey, Bobby?” I called over the partition in our room.

  “What?”

  “You know anything about Dad’s dad?”

  “Who?”

  “Dad’s dad. Our grandfather. The one we never saw. The one who died.”

  Silence, then, “Why you asking?”

  “Curious. What happened to him?”

  “You’re Dad’s favorite. Ask him. He tells you his secrets, not me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, what was he telling you about before, anyway? His dad?”

  “Never mind,” I said.

  “My point exactly.” After a moment, Bobby asked, “You really a Giants fan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Idiot.”

  I went back to wondering about Dad and his dad. All of a sudden, a whole new thought crawled into my head: Maybe Dad’s dad was still alive.

  I heard the phone ring in the kitchen. A minute later Ma poked her head in. “Kat’s on the phone.”

  I leaped off my bed, grabbed my history homework from my desk, and ran down the hall.

  “Hey,” I said into the phone, “want some help from a first-place Giants fan?”

  Kat said, “Wasn’t why I was calling.” Her voice was tight, her breathing hard, as if she’d been running.

  Right off, I knew something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not . . . going to school with you in the morning.”

  “How . . . come?”

  “My father says . . . I can’t be friends with you anymore.”

  “What?”

  Took her a moment. “You know. Your dad being a Commie.”

  I kept the phone to my ear, waiting for her to say she was joking. She didn’t. She hung up. When she did, a whole part of my life had hung up, too.

  Ma came into the kitchen. “Is something the matter with Kat?” she said. “She sounded agitated.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “Did you have a good talk with Dad?”

  “Fine.” I started to walk past her. She put a hand on my shoulder. Her worried eyes searched my face. “We don’t want you to be upset about these things.”

  “I’m not,” I said, because upset was not the half of it.

  In my room, I sat at my desk, wishing my life had not become so awful. I stared at my math book, but couldn’t open it. After a while, I realized Bobby was standing behind me.

  He said, “Want to see something great?”

  “No.”

  “Come on. You got to look at this.”

  I looked. He was holding some sort of certificate.

  “From that National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics,” he explained, a big grin on his face. “My acceptance for the science camp. First step to the moon.”

  “Can’t wait till you go,” I said.

  His smile turned acid. “When are you going to grow up and learn how the world works?”

  I said, “Do me a favor: strap yourself to a rocket and light a match.”

  I jumped up, pushed past him, went into the radio room, and stood before the family picture hanging on the wall. There we were. The whole crowd.

  Who was missing? My grandfather. Where was he?

  The longer I stared, the more I felt I was playing that game from the Sunday comics, the one called “What Is Wrong with This Picture?”

  15

  I woke up the next morning, tired and cross, remembering that Kat wasn’t allowed to walk with me anymore. The thought of going to school and dodging Donavan and the kids seemed as much fun as following circus elephants down the street with a shovel.

  I forced myself up. In the kitchen, as I sat in front of a bowl of Grape Nuts, Ma, who was putting my bag lunch together, said, “You look tired.”

  If she had said “dead,” I would have agreed.

  Dad eyed me while getting coffee. “We didn’t talk about your teacher last night,” he said. “I think I should go in and speak to him.”

  “No!” I cried. “You’ll only make things worse.” I jumped up to get my school stuff together.

  “I’m going,” Bobby shouted from the hallway.

  “Have a happy!” Ma called.

  She came into my room with my paper-bag lunch in her hand and questions in her eyes. I took the lunch. Didn’t give any answers.

  Out on the street, I couldn’t help waiting a couple of minutes for Kat. When she didn’t show up, I set off. Figuring there would be mostly headlines about Commies, I avoided looking at the newspaper booth as I went past. I had enough headlines in my head. It was when I got to the other side of the booth that I saw Kat standing there.

  I stopped, not knowing what to say.

  With an almost smile, she said, “You’re late.”

  If you can be happy and angry at the same time, that’s the way I was.

  She said, “Sorry about last night. My father was right there. He made me say that.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “He doesn’t want me to have anything to do with reds. I told him you’re not one.”

  “What’s he think will happen?”

  She scrunched her face. “Something ghastly. When I told my dad what Donavan said about your father, he blew up and said I had to stop being friends with you. Said if I didn’t, he’d send me away. And last night he made me call you.”

  I knew perfectly well that Dad told me not to tell anyone about our conversation, but I trusted Kat more than anyone else. And by meeting me, she was trusting me, too. Besides, the questions in my head were too big. I needed to share them with her.

  I said, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “You know I can.” She made a cross over her heart.

  “It’s real bad. Better do it again.”

  She did.

  “You know that question you asked about my father: If the Communists took over . . . ?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I asked him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “A lot,” I said.

  She started walking. “See ya.”

  I caught up. “Come on, Kat,” I cried. “You’re the only one in the whole world I can talk to.”

  She looked at me, brown eyes full of worry. Took her a moment before she said, “Okay. Tell me during morning recess. I won’t play punchball.”

  “You sure?”

  “It’s dumb that you’re a Giants fan, but we’re best friends, right? And we already sent for the Secret Code Maker. So we might as well have some secrets, right?”

  “Whatever you say—” I almost said “sweetheart.” Didn’t. I
had enough troubles.

  Class started, as always, with the Pledge of Allegiance.

  I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

  I changed “one nation, indivisible” to “one nation and I’m invisible.” No one heard. When we hit the end, I spoke “all” extra loud. What I really wanted to shout was, “I am not a Commie!”

  Hands folded, eyes front, I sat in my corner desk. No one looked or spoke to me all morning. Not even Kat. I might as well have been sitting on the moon with Bobby. When I raised my hand, Donavan ignored me. When there was a math quiz, before the test monitor gave me a paper, he looked to Donavan, as if asking permission. I got all the quiz answers right but only got 89 percent, because Donavan took off points for things like not making a plus sign clear.

  Midmorning, we were doing penmanship, when Donavan suddenly shouted, “Drop!”

  We often practiced “Duck and cover” drills in case the Russians dropped an atom bomb on us. We scrambled under our desks, wrapped arms and hands around necks and heads, and waited to see if our world was about to end. The first time we did the drill, a couple of kids started to cry.

  “All clear,” said Donavan.

  We crawled back into our seats, and resumed work, knowing the world wasn’t ending—probably not before lunch, anyway.

  During recess, while the boys played punchball and the girls jumped rope or played hopscotch, Kat and I went to a corner and sat down. We had twenty minutes.

  She drew up her legs, wrapped her arms around them, and waited.

  I said, “You can’t tell anyone.”

  “Just tell me.”

  I started by telling her about the FBI visit, what Ewing said about my father being a Commie, and how he wanted to know about my grandfather, whom I knew nothing about.

  Kat kept her eyes forward. “Did you tell your parents?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  “Because—guess what—Ewing is friends with Donavan. At first, I thought Ewing came because Donavan was working to get my father in trouble. I’m not so sure, now. Then I thought the FBI was trying to find out about my grandfather. Only he’s dead. So I don’t know what they want.”

  “You should tell your parents. At least your parents listen to you.”

  At lunch break, I continued my story, telling how my dad had been a Communist years ago but didn’t like Communists now. I said, “I’m worried that maybe he did something else back then—something awful.”

  When Kat didn’t say anything, I asked, “If your father did something terrible, would you want to know?”

  “Not sure.”

  I said, “In The Maltese Falcon even though Sam Spade loves this lady, when he learns the truth, that she murdered his partner—and he didn’t even like him—he turns her in.”

  “Yikes.”

  “So what happens if I find out my dad did something awful?”

  Kat shook her head.

  “This Sunday my whole family is having a get-together. I was thinking I could find out what Dad did back then from them.”

  “I don’t know. Grown-ups hide stuff they don’t like talking about.”

  “Who does that?”

  “My parents.”

  “What are they hiding?”

  “Told you: They don’t like each other. It’s supposed to be a secret but it isn’t. My father is always telling my mother she’s stupid. She’s not.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry your dad is a Red.”

  “That make us equal?”

  Don’t ask me why, but we started laughing.

  At the end of the day, Kat and I walked home from school, not saying much except to agree that we’d meet by the newsstand next morning.

  No one else had spoken to me all day. Kat had been my best friend for a long time. Now she was my only friend.

  16

  On Wednesday, school stayed stinko. When it was over, I went to my job, reading to Mr. Ordson, the blind man. I’d been working for him for about a year. I got the job through one of our neighbors who knew him. Each time I went, I made a dollar.

  I usually went on Thursdays, but he’d asked me to come a day early this week. So by three thirty, I was at his apartment building.

  It was an old but grand place, with a blue awning that hung over the entrance like the bill on a baseball hat. To get in, you had to use a buzzer system or ask permission from Mario, the doorman. A short, round guy, Mario always wore a long green coat, a peaked cap, gold braided epaulets on his shoulders, and white gloves, as if he was going to a Halloween party pretending to be a general. When he wasn’t carrying packages or standing guard at the door, Mario was in the leather lobby chair, studying newspaper racing forms. When Pete came in, Mario grabbed his arm and whispered, “Hey, Pete: Belmont daily double. Win Me a Song in the fifth. Shadow Sister in the sixth. Sure thing.” Mario’s world seemed to be full of sure things. But the only sure thing Pete ever saw him do was open doors for other people.

  There were two flights of stairs, one on either side of the lobby, but I took the creaky elevator to the fourth floor and rang the bell at apartment 4F. In minutes I heard, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Mr. Ordson. Pete.”

  The door opened. “Good afternoon, Pete.”

  Mr. Ordson’s Seeing Eye dog, a German shepherd named Loki, poked out his wet nose. His other end wagged like a New Year’s Eve bandleader’s baton.

  As for Mr. Ordson, he was tall and thin, with a dome as glossy as an egg, a face that was narrow and high-cheeked, big ears, and clouded white eyes. He always wore a white shirt, red necktie, and a dark suit with a tiny American flag on his lapel. Sometimes the flag was upside down. There were often stains on his tie and crumbs on his jacket. He wore a wedding ring, but Pete never saw a wife or kids, and Ordson never talked much about himself. He was a listener. Pete read the papers, Ordson listened. It was like working for a mask.

  Ordson shut the door behind me and turned on the hall light, a single bulb high on the ceiling. Faded pictures of flowers hung on the wall. Sometimes I wondered who looked at them besides me.

  I followed Ordson and Loki down the hallway. The dog’s toenails clicked on the bare wooden floor like tiny tap dancers. As always, a card table had been set up in a small, dim room off the hallway. Near a reading chair was a wall of thick Braille books. I could barely see, but it was easy to imagine Ordson sitting in darkness, using his skinny fingers to read and make pictures in his head.

  Mr. Ordson switched on the ceiling light for me and sat at one side of the table. I sat opposite. On the table was a pile of the New York Times. Next to the papers was a glass of milk, plus three Oreo Creme Sandwich cookies on a pink plate.

  Loki lay down on the floor, paws stretched out, chin resting between them. He soon nodded off, breathing deeply. Loki was never more than a foot or two away from his master, and I often wondered if he knew Mr. Ordson was blind.

  While I ate, Mr. Ordson pressed his hands together and touched his fingertips to his thin lips, as if praying.

  “Well, Pete,” he’d say, “how are you today?”

  “Fine.”

  “I don’t believe that’s entirely so.”

  Surprised, I looked up. His eyes were like white buttons. “How . . . how do you know?”

  “You sound distressed.”

  I said, “Things . . . things aren’t great in school.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What has happened?”

  “I . . . I’d rather not say,” I answered, feeling uncomfortable.

  “That’s perfectly acceptable. Let’s peruse the papers.”

  I read the major headlines from the top front page.

  “Would you be so good as to read me that main story about North Korea,” Mr. Ordson asked.

  As I read, he listened, head cocked slightly to one side, as usual, not showing emotion. I
heard my own voice not always getting the words right, sounding stupid, stuttering as I tried to make sense of what I was reading.

  I reached the end of the column. “Most thought-provoking,” Mr. Ordson said, and requested another story.

  After I read for about an hour, he said, “Would you like more milk? Cookies? They’re in the kitchen if you desire some.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Would you care to talk to me now about what is troubling you?”

  “No, sir.”

  He put his hands together. “Then let us continue.”

  When my reading was done, Loki and Mr. Ordson walked me to the front door. Mr. Ordson opened it and held out my silver dollar pay. He was the only one I knew who used dollar coins. As I stepped into the hall, he said, “Pete, please know that I am an expert listener.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “As you may have noticed, I have big ears.”

  The door shut behind me. I heard him snap off the light and walk back down the dark hall. I stood for a bit, thinking that maybe I needed a grown-up to talk to, someone not connected to this business. I even had this thought: Blind men can’t tell if you’re invisible.

  I walked home. Got Ma’s paper. On the front page was a headline and story:

  BEING A RED CALLED “HIDEOUS MISTAKE”

  Marc Lawrence, Hollywood actor and specialist in gunman roles, told the House Committee on Un-American Activities today that he had signed a Communist Party card in 1938. Now, he said, he viewed his action and the associations that followed as a “hideous mistake.”

  It was like what Dad said. Except this guy was telling his story to a government committee. Would Dad have to do that? It was that moment that I decided I had better tell him about the FBI visit. Besides, if I told him, I might get some answers to my unanswered questions.

  I could almost hear Sam Spade saying, “Hey, sweetheart, want to find the truth? Tell the truth.”

  That’s why, when dinner was over, I said to Dad and Ma, “I need to tell you something.”

  “Don’t mind me,” said Bobby.

  “It’s none of your beeswax,” I said.