Catch You Later, Traitor Page 7

  “You know what you are?” said Bobby. “A joke that’s not funny.”

  “Better than being funny without a joke,” I threw back.

  To me Dad said, “Let’s clean up, then talk.”

  After washing dishes, I went to get those FBI cards so I could show them to my folks. But when I flipped through the Black Mask, I found only one. I searched around my desk. Not there. Around my bed. Not there.

  Dad stuck his head into my room. “Your ma and I are in the radio room.”

  Holding the one FBI card as if it was a poison pill, I went down the hall.

  Ma and Dad sat next to each other on the couch.

  Dad said, “Okay, Pete, what’s on your mind?”

  I handed Dad the FBI card. He took it, read it, and looked up as if he’d been stung. “Where’d you get this?” He gave the card to Ma. She studied it, then me, eyes wide.

  “Last Saturday morning,” I said, “when you were shopping, I went to the movies, but I left early. Right after I came home that guy showed up.”

  “Here? The FBI?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you speak to him?”

  Another nod.

  Ma said, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Before I could answer, Dad asked, “What did he say?”

  “That . . . that you’re a Communist.”

  Their reaction was like watching a newsreel of an atom bomb blast—all shock and no sound.

  At last, Dad said, “How . . . did you respond?”

  I tried my best to repeat the conversation. As I talked, Ma and Dad kept exchanging looks. Dad took out his cigarettes and lit one. At one point Ma took Dad’s hand.

  When I finished, I said, “Did I say anything wrong?”

  Dad took a deep breath and said, “You did just fine. They have no right to come in here. Not without a warrant.”

  We sat there, my parents swapping rapid-fire eye talk. I saw something I had never seen before: They were afraid. Knowing your parents are afraid is like being in the middle of the ocean and discovering your boat has a big hole in the bottom.

  For the second time, Ma said, “Pete, why didn’t you tell us then?”

  “I thought it was Mr. Donavan’s doing.”

  Dad squashed out his barely smoked cigarette in the full ashtray. “Pete, the FBI has already spoken to me.”

  “They did? When? What about?”

  “They . . .” He glanced at Ma. “They wanted to know things. I refused to cooperate. I guess they decided to get to me through you. I’m sorry. But I doubt it has anything to do with your teacher.”

  “But why did that Ewing guy come after me?”

  Dad pulled his second cigarette. “They are using you. Trying to put pressure on me. Fishing for information.”

  “What information?”

  He just sat there.

  “He gonna arrest you?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” said Ma.

  Dad looked at his shoes. Ma looked at Dad. I heard what sounded like footsteps in the hall—Bobby. “Dad, how’d the FBI know you’d been a Communist?” I asked.

  He looked up fast, like a fish with a hook in his mouth, but didn’t answer.

  It was Ma who said, “It was probably an informer. Someone who knew your dad had been a Communist and told—the FBI.”

  I said, “Why would anyone do that?”

  Dad took out another cigarette. “Maybe the person thought he was helping the country. Or maybe he was bargaining for something. Or . . . or attempting to harm me.”

  “Who would want to harm you?”

  “No idea.”

  “If you knew who the informer was, would it help?”

  He thought, then said, “I suppose if I knew, I might be able to find out what he said. Try to correct it.”

  Ma said, “It was probably someone from years ago. Someone who knew your dad when he was a teenager and—”

  Dad cut in: “The anti-Communist crowd digs deep for that kind of stuff. Tell me again what this FBI agent said about my father.”

  “He asked if I knew anything about him. You never really told me what happened . . .”

  Dad puffed his cigarette. Another answer went up in smoke. Ma sat there, eyes on Dad, letting him be in charge.

  I said, “You going to tell Bobby about this?”

  Dad said, “Better keep this to yourself for a while.”

  Ma jumped in. “Of course we’ll tell him. But later, Pete. We need to think some.”

  Dad said, “Okay, Pete, scoot. You’re going to have to let your ma and me talk.”

  I left the room lugging another load of unanswered questions.

  17

  Back in my room, I searched for that second FBI card. When I couldn’t find it, I turned on my desk radio; the Boston Braves had beaten the Giants. The Giants were no longer in first place.

  I flumped on my bed like a wet sandbag. A few seconds later, Bobby appeared at the foot of my bed. “What were you guys talking about?”

  “What do you care?” I said, but wondered if he was asking to cover for his eavesdropping. I had to admit, suspicion is catching. People get suspicious about you, you get suspicious about other people.

  Bobby said, “Must be something.”

  “You think this family is stupid, don’t you?”

  “Guess what. Couple years, I’m off to college and I’m not coming back. All Dad talks about is history. He’s living in the past. Ma just tries to get snotty rich kids to like their parents. You? You’re nowhere. I’m the only one who’s about the future.” He went back to his side of the room.

  Pushing aside Bobby’s outburst, I went over Ma’s and Dad’s words: that it was an informer who told the FBI that Dad had been a Communist. That someone wanted to hurt him. But why? Then I remembered Dad saying it might help if he knew who the informer was.

  Which meant I now had three investigations: What did Dad do when he was a teenager? What happened to his dad? And who was the informer? It was like a real-life detective story. In mystery stories, the private eye starts by looking for the answer to one question. Then he learns he needs answers to lots of questions. Doesn’t matter how many. In the end, he learns that all the questions are connected. When he answers all of them, the truth spills like Niagara Falls.

  If I were going to start with one question, I’d start with what Dad did. Seemed the easiest. Because if anybody knew something about Dad back then, Grandma Sally would. All of a sudden, I was actually looking forward to the family get-together Sunday.

  Thursday morning, I was so tired Ma had to wake me. Feeling like an old sock, I got up and out and met Kat by the newsstand. Right off, I said, “I did what you said. Told my folks about the FBI.”

  “What did they say?”

  “It’s a long story. Tell you during recess.”

  She said, “I have bad news. My father called Mary Geary’s father. He fixed it so Mary watches me and tells him if you and I talk.”

  “An informer.”

  “I suppose. I don’t care. We’ll have to meet here after school to talk.”

  We headed off, talking baseball. With the Giants losing, Kat teased me. I didn’t mind. At least she was talking to me. But a couple of blocks from school, she halted. She gave a little wave. “See you at the newsstand,” she said, and went off. I walked the rest of the way alone.

  In the schoolyard, while kids waited to get inside, no one talked to me. I saw Mary Geary watching Kat. Kat pretended I wasn’t there.

  Class began regular enough, with me in my corner desk, which was like that island in the middle of the Pacific, Bikini, where they exploded the A-bomb. I guess I was radioactive, too.

  Benny Greene, the class clown, was that day’s ink monitor. A runt of a guy, he had a buzz haircut, chubby little hands, and a smart mouth. He went round the room, carefully filling the little glass cups set into each desk. Gradually, he worked back to my desk. As he leaned over, his hand jerked. Black ink poured over me.

  “Hey!” I
leaped up.

  “Accident!” cried Benny. He turned toward Donavan. “Sorry, Mr. Donavan, sir. I know. I should have used red ink.” Kids laughed.

  Furious, I stood by my desk looking down at my ink-splotched shirt.

  Class titters faded when Donavan stood there, not saying anything. “Benny,” he said, “I think you need to apologize to Pete.”

  “Sorry,” muttered Benny but slipped in a smarmy smirk.

  That tipped me over. I punched his chest as hard as I could. He staggered back. The ink bottle slipped from his hands, hit the ground, and burst. Black ink spattered everywhere. Kids leaped from their desks.

  “Pete!” roared Donavan. “That’s enough.”

  Struggling for breath, I shouted, “He did it on purpose! And you wanted him to.”

  All Donavan said was, “Ben, take your seat. Philip, run to the basement and tell the custodian we had an ink bottle break.”

  Philip tore out of the room.

  I glared at Donavan. If he had gotten closer, I would have punched him, too. He must have guessed, because he didn’t budge.

  “Pete,” he said, “Ben has apologized for his clumsiness. Now let’s move on. Take your seat.”

  “I’m soaking wet!” I shouted, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home to change my clothes. You don’t want me here anyway.”

  Donavan’s cheeks turned red, but he didn’t say otherwise.

  I yanked the door open and looked back. The whole class was staring at me. “And I’m a Giants fan!” I cried, slamming the door behind me.

  I galloped home. Soon as I got into our apartment hallway, I stripped off my shirt and headed for the bathroom. Next moment I heard a thunk coming from Dad’s office.

  I froze. “Who’s there?”

  Bobby stepped into the hall.

  I said, “What are you doing home?”

  “Had to get something. What’s with you?”

  “Got ink all over my shirt.” I held it up.

  “How’d that happen?”

  “Accident. What were you doing in Dad’s office?”

  “Told you. Needed something.”

  “What?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he said.

  Fuming, I went to the bathroom, turned on the tub tap, and flung in my shirt. Ink seeped away like blue-black blood.

  “See you later,” I heard Bobby shout. The front door slammed. He wanted to get away fast.

  I washed my chest and dried myself. Leaving the shirt to soak in the tub, I went to my room, where I put on clean clothes. Satisfied, I headed for the front door, only to stop before I got there. What had Bobby been doing in Dad’s office?

  I went back and looked in.

  Think, I told myself. Think like Sam Spade. Okay. Any clues? One: that sound: Thunk.

  Standing in the doorway, I studied the office. As usual, it was so messy it was impossible to tell much. Then I noticed that one of the file cabinet drawers was slightly open.

  I ran to the front door, locked and chained it, returned to the office, and yanked out that drawer and shoved it closed. Thunk. The same sound I’d heard before. It bounced out a bit, too, the way I found it. Okay: Bobby had opened and shut that drawer. What had he been looking for?

  I pulled the drawer fully open and began to flip through the tabs. “Medical.” “Books.” “Insurance.” Ordinary things. But one tab was sticking up slightly, as if it had been pulled but not shoved completely back down.

  It was labeled “Frank.”

  Having no idea who “Frank” was, I lifted the folder out and spread it wide.

  Inside were two photographs, one big, one small. The smaller picture was that one I’d seen in Dad’s desk: Grandma Sally, a man, my dad’s sisters, Dad, and a boy who might have been a friend. I had thought the man was my dad’s Uncle Chris. Now I decided the image was sort of like him though not exactly. With all that talk about Dad’s dad, it crossed my mind that this might be him.

  The larger of the two photographs was a washed-out picture of a man and two boys. Dressed in old-fashioned overalls, the man sort of looked like my dad. Bald. Not too tall. Was he Dad’s dad?

  The older kid was about my age, twelve. The second boy was younger, shorter. The older one of the pair had his arm round the younger boy’s shoulder. The kids were grinning, looking like best friends.

  I flipped the picture over. In faded black ink—not my dad’s handwriting—someone had written “Frank.” There was a second name, “Nelson Kasper,” written in pencil—Dad’s writing. Under that was scrawled “Blaine” and a number, “2573.”

  Two people, three names, and a number. Which name belonged to whom? Who were they? What did that number mean?

  I put the photos back in the folder, replaced the folder the way I’d found it, closed the drawer, and went to my room.

  I lay on my bed and began asking myself questions. Had Bobby been looking at those pictures? If so, why? Did he know who Frank, Blaine, and Nelson Kasper were?

  Before I knew it, I had fallen asleep. After what seemed like only the next moment, I woke suddenly and checked the clock. It was one o’clock in the afternoon. I had missed almost the whole school day.

  My first reaction was to be upset, but then I was glad I didn’t have to deal with Donavan and the kids, at least for a while. Instead, I ate lunch, read some, and waited till three. Then I grabbed a couple of Twinkies and headed for the newspaper stand, where I sat on the curb and waited for Kat. When she showed up, I held out a Twinkie.

  She took it and sat down by my side. “Benny’s a jerk,” she said.

  “Did Donavan say anything after I left?” I asked.

  “Said we should keep away from you. That you were trouble.”

  “He’s the jerk.”

  “Said you’d be suspended for fighting and leaving school.”

  “Suspended? You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head. “For a day. Tomorrow.”

  “What about Benny?”

  “Donavan didn’t say.”

  “When I got home, my brother was there.”

  “You tell him what happened?”

  “Not really. Thing is, he was supposed to be in school, only he was in my dad’s office, looking for something in a file cabinet. I checked. It was some old photos.”

  “Photos of what?”

  “They might be my grandfather and my father when he was a kid. His sisters and some friend, too. On the back side, there were names I never heard of. Oh, yeah, and last night I think Bobby was listening when I was talking to my parents about the FBI.”

  “When you told them about the FBI, what did they say?”

  “They were frightened. And I’m sure Dad’s hiding something. Other thing: My parents think all this is happening because someone—the informer—is trying to get at my dad.”

  Clutching her lunch box and satchel, she stood up. “Gotta go,” she said.

  “You know what?” I said, looking up at her. “I really want to find out who the informer is. And find out if Dad did anything, you know, bad.”

  “You really going to do that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you later, traitor,” she said with a grin, and started to walk off, swinging her lunch box at her side. Then she stopped and threw me one last question over her shoulder. “What’ll happen when you find out those things?” she asked.

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  18

  I was in my room late that afternoon, reading a story in Black Mask, something called “Take It and Like It,” when Ma came home and walked straight into my room.

  “Pete,” she said, “I received a call at work from your school principal’s office. You’ve been suspended from school tomorrow for fighting and leaving school. What in the world happened?”

  “I punched a kid.”

  “My goodness, Pete. Why?”

  “He spilled ink on me. On purpose. Then I came home to
change my shirt and . . . I fell asleep.”

  “Fell asleep?”

  “Honest.”

  “We’ll talk about this later. I’m not happy, Pete.”

  “Think I am?” I shouted as she went down the hall.

  At dinner, Ma silently served up the lamb chops and mashed potatoes along with spring peas. When she sat down, she said, “All right, Pete, what happened at school?”

  “Ink on his shirt,” said Bobby. “Big whooping deal.”

  “Your brother was suspended from school,” said Dad.

  “You kidding?” said Bobby. “Why?”

  “Fighting.”

  “What did you do, squirt, beat up some first grader?”

  “Shh,” Ma scolded. “Pete, you need to tell us what happened.”

  I just sat there.

  “Pete,” said Dad, “this is serious. We need to hear.”

  Grudgingly, I told them everything about what had been going on with Donavan, what he said in class that day, the Commie business, making me read the definitions, and how the kids were treating me. How Kat’s father said she and I couldn’t be friends. I explained that Benny spilled ink on me on purpose. I said what he said and how I punched him.

  Ma’s face kept changing, shifting from worry to surprise to anger. Dad just stared at me, his face pale, eyes sad, but mostly tired. From time to time, he swiped a hand across his mouth and mustache, as if to keep himself from talking. Bobby gazed at me with his usual know-it-all look. Sure enough, when I was done, he said, “First of all your teacher is a mug. Second, the kid who spilled the ink should have been kicked out, not you.”

  That took me by surprise. Bobby didn’t defend me very often.

  Ma said, “I don’t have much good to say about your teacher.”

  And Dad said, “I don’t think Mr. Donavan is acting the way a teacher should. I need to talk to him.”

  In a flash, I could see Dad going in, arguing with Donavan. Donavan going right to the FBI . . . “Don’t!” I cried. “I can handle it.”

  Dad sighed. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Ma said, “Maybe you should transfer to my school.”

  “No!” I said even louder, thinking about Kat, my only friend. “I want to stay.”

  Dad shook his head. “I really need to go in and talk—”