Part 3 (1/2)
Not possible. Not fair. William hesitated, trying to process what he was seeing.
”There's someone down there,” he said in disbelief. ”Did you tell anyone we were leaving? Did you accidentally say anything ...?”
”I didn't tell a soul-I swear, who would I tell?”
William rubbed his temple. It must have been me. He worried as he remembered the note he'd pa.s.sed. The girl who'd whispered to Charlotte must have told someone, who told someone else, and that gossip had eventually reached the ears of someone in charge.
”William Eng!” a woman called through the trees, from the direction of the school.
”It's Sister B,” Charlotte whispered. Her voice was laced with panic.
William's heart pounded. His first thought was to make a break for it. He could sprint through the trees until he reached the fence-then up and over. I can outrun any of the sisters, probably the janitor as well. But what do I do about Charlotte? he fretted. I can't leave her behind.
”It's okay,” Charlotte said softly, calmly.
”It's not, this nixes everything ...”
She reached out and took William's hand. ”We can just tell her we came here-to the grotto-to spend some time alone.”
”Doing what?” William asked, furrowing his brow.
She stared in his direction with her other hand on her hip. She raised her eyebrows. ”You know-what boys and girls sneak off for.”
William blushed. He understood, grateful that she couldn't see his face.
He was about to agree with that plan when he peered through the trees and saw the librarian, Miss Fredericks, pus.h.i.+ng the wheeled cart of picture books toward the infants' home. And he caught a glimpse of Sister Briganti marching down the brick path.
We can do this. ”There's still a chance. Do you trust me?”
”Of course.”
”Then I have another idea. We're gonna crawl through the hedges.” He took her wrist, and they both got on their hands and knees. He instructed her to hold on to his ankle and follow him as they burrowed their way like rabbits through the thick hedgerow and the next, until they were standing near the lane between the school and the gate.
”Are we going to run now?” Charlotte asked, brus.h.i.+ng leaves and needles from her sweater. She gripped her cane and stepped downhill toward the gate.
”No, we're going to ride.” He took her hand and quickly led her back toward the school and the bookmobile.
He heard Sister Briganti arrive in the grotto. ”William Eng-I know you're out here somewhere. And Miss Rigg, you know I'll find you too, and when I do ...”
Charlotte covered her mouth and giggled as Sister Briganti began shouting angrily in Italian. ”Ho il mio occhio su di te e Malocchio troppo!”
The only word William recognized referenced something about the evil eye. He imagined the statuary of saints wincing and covering their ears.
With Miss Fredericks gone and most of the children on the other side of the bookmobile, William led Charlotte through the driver's door. The outside panels had been raised on the opposite side, and most of the kids were focused on the rows of books, or had their heads down, lost in stories of pirates or runaway slaves-all but Sunny, who stood in the back of the line, waiting impatiently. William saw his eyes widen in shock when they spotted each other through the pa.s.senger window. So long, Sunny, William thought as he put his finger to his lips and led Charlotte into the back of the truck, behind the enormous shelves where there were boxes and crates of books. He found a large, wheeled bin, half-full with hardbound books. He and Charlotte climbed inside, digging their way to the bottom, their legs tangled together as they covered themselves as best they could with copies of Pudd'nhead Wilson, The Prince and the Pauper, and Huckleberry Finn. William waited, in that uncomfortable heap, his heart racing and his temples throbbing with fear and excitement.
”This is an adventure worth writing about,” Charlotte whispered.
Before he could agree William heard the librarian return, banging up the ramp with the cart. He took Charlotte's hand, and they quietly slumped down as deep as they could. He felt the book cart slam against their bin, and heard Miss Fredericks locking the wheel so it wouldn't roll. The librarian said something about needing some coffee, then shoved the ramp back into the bookmobile and closed the door, leaving them in shadows. William pushed the books aside so he and Charlotte could breathe and have a little more room, untangling their legs, though she didn't seem to mind.
He peeked up from the bin and saw the librarian climb into the driver's seat, start the noisy engine, and then light a cigarette, tossing the match out the window before rolling the window back up. William clenched his teeth as he heard her grinding the gears. Then the bookmobile lurched and cigarette smoke drifted into the back as the truck pulled forward, turning through the circular drive, heading back down the lane to the city streets and away from Sacred Heart.
On the wall William noticed a poster that read, BOOKS ARE WINDOWS TO THE WORLD. Windows? he thought. This is an exit door, on wheels. As the bookmobile pulled onto the city street and sped up, William felt Charlotte squeeze his hand.
She whispered, ”Sister Briganti once said that all great stories of love and sacrifice have a moral-it's up to us to find the lesson hidden inside.”
William didn't know if his story had a moral to it. Honestly, he didn't care. He was going to find Willow Frost. All he wished for was a happy ending.
Scars on First Avenue.
(1934).
William climbed out of the dusty bin and sat on the floor near the rear of the bookmobile, struggling not to sneeze. He breathed slowly, trying to relax, inhaling the scent of paper, glue, and printers' ink. He peered through the rear window as they rolled by the stately brick buildings of the University of Was.h.i.+ngton, cruised through the Broadway hilltops, and then headed down Pike Street into the heart of Seattle's business district. Much to his surprise the streets seemed more crowded than when he was out on his birthday, not just with cars and trucks but with people-scores of men, some in army uniforms, were filling the streets, slowing traffic to a crawl. Charlotte felt his arm and tapped his shoulder; then she pointed behind her head in the direction of Miss Fredericks, who had stopped at an intersection and was talking to a traffic cop. William overheard the librarian asking if there was a better way to get to Boeing Field. William had never seen the new airport, but he remembered riding the interurban line all the way to Meadows Race Track, where he and his mother often went when he was just a toddler. As William listened in, he had a vague recollection of curlicues of cigar smoke and the smell of horses sweating on a hot summer day. He remembered his mother pointing out a giant red barn across the river.
”That's where they make airplanes,” she'd said, much to his bewilderment. ”Some can even land on the water. Then they go ...”
He'd watched as she made a zooming sound and pointed to the sky. Sister Briganti had once told them that Charles Lindbergh had landed there a few years back, but William wasn't convinced. I don't know what to believe anymore.
William felt the bookmobile lurch into motion as Miss Fredericks pulled onto a side street, which was filled with more cars and people. He peeked through the rear-door window and saw a mounted police officer galloping toward them, blowing his whistle. He's seen us. William tried not to panic as he glanced in all directions for another exit, a better place to hide, anything, just as the policeman veered around them, slowly trotting through the crowded street. William heard the roar of an enormous crowd. He looked back and saw Charlotte looking just as worried as he was.
”What is it?” she whispered.
”I don't know, but we might as well leave now.” While we can. ”I don't think this rig is going anywhere anytime soon.”
William felt Miss Fredericks pull the bookmobile over to the side of the street. She honked the horn and then stepped out onto the running board to get a better look.
”Now's our chance.” William opened the rear door and was overwhelmed by a flowing river of men-thousands, a huge column marching past them toward Pike Street, tromping in worn leather heels. The men leading the march carried huge painted banners that read, WE WANT CASH RELIEF, MORE CALORIES AND LESS WORMS IN RATION BOXES, and BUILD THE SUBWAY FOR JOBS. The pedestrians on the sidewalks, an a.s.sortment of businessmen dressed in suits and women in pleated skirts, quickly got out of the way.
William helped Charlotte exit the back of the bookmobile, then donned his knapsack and took her free hand as she walked with her cane outstretched in front of her. Fortunately even the most boisterous of those in the crowd still had the civility to recognize a little blind girl and stepped aside or tipped their caps even though she couldn't see their courteous gestures. They tried walking against the tide of marchers but were like helpless fish struggling to swim upstream. It's a protest march, William realized. We're lucky it hasn't broken into a full riot. He took Charlotte's arm and turned her around, going with the flow of bodies until they reached the main avenue; then they slowly peeled off toward the packed sidewalk. He led her up the steps of an apartment building, someplace safe where he could get a better look. He watched as veterans in uniform, some missing arms and legs, hobbled by on crutches shouting for the bonuses they'd been promised. Then someone blew a whistle and the chaos took on a more orderly shape as the marchers began singing in unison, ”Don't scab for the bosses. Don't listen to their lies. Us poor folks haven't got a chance, unless we organize.”
”It's a rally of some kind-like an angry parade,” William said. ”Soldiers demanding back pay and all kinds of men marching for jobs. Women too.”
From his perch atop the steps, William looked up and down the broad avenue for a boardinghouse, but all he saw were banks, shoe stores, druggists, and an odd a.s.sortment of diners, sausage carts, and popcorn wagons. He glimpsed a large sandwich board with a poster he recognized, the same one he'd seen on his birthday.
”Let's go this way,” he said, leading Charlotte through the crowd to the painted image of Stepin Fetchit, Willow Frost, Asa Berger, and an all-girl orchestra called the Ingenues. As William noted the venues and showtimes, Charlotte pulled away from him and walked toward the sound of a player piano.
William looked up at the sign. ”Le Pet.i.t,” he said. ”It's a penny arcade.”
”Let's go inside.”
William hesitated, then shrugged and led her through the swinging doors.
”It smells like candied apples,” Charlotte said, smiling.
And cigarette smoke, William thought, as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimly lit parlor with walls covered in red velvet wallpaper. There were rows of nickelodeons showing adventures, comedies, and grown-up movies about what the butler saw. There was even a sports parlor with bra.s.s Mutoscopes where you could watch Jack Dempsey fight Gene Tunney for a penny a round. William remembered visiting an arcade like this years ago, but that place had been sparkling new and crowded with children, as well as men and women standing elbow to elbow, impatiently waiting in line for their turn at a Moviola. This place had newer machines but was completely vacant.
”Another day, another rally in the street,” a man said from behind a counter with neat rows of candy jars and bins of popcorn and boxes of Cracker Jack. ”We're lucky the Silver s.h.i.+rts weren't out there causing a ruckus. That's all we need, common folk getting b.l.o.o.d.y in the streets. Been more than ten years since the general strike and things are worse now than they were back then.” Coins jingled as he shook his waist ap.r.o.n, redirecting the subject. ”You kids need some change?”